Out of Sight, Out of Mind
by Mottlemoth
Summary: Artler; complete. When Artemis loses both his parents and his sight in a car accident, Butler is left to pick up the pieces. But will Fowl history be repeated? Rated M for slash.
1. Painkillers

*****

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind****_  
by Mottlemoth_**

**_*  
_**

**Revised Author's Notes**

_I'd been toying with the idea of a "blind" story for a while when I started this fic, so finally decided to have a go and see what happened - hopefully you'll enjoy the outcome :)_

_ Before we begin: this story is Artemis/Butler SLASH, even if it takes a little while to get there. If you're offended by slash, I recommend you stop reading now, as there will also be graphic sexual content in the later chapters. So that I don't spend nine or ten chapters waffling on, the story begins when Artemis wakes up in hospital, blinded. Everything up to that point will be explained - don't worry. Obviously, there will be a hefty dollop of angst in this story, but don't give up on the happy ending ;) I'm afraid there won't be much fairy content in this story, but lots of other fun stuff, so get comfortable and enjoy.  
_

_I adore feedback. Please, please, send as much of the stuff as you like - positive, negative, critical, just a note to say hi and that you're reading. Don't be shy!_

_One last thing: this is set AFTER 'The Opal Deception' and there could well be a spoiler or two lurking around some dark corner. (It isn't compatible with the later books.) If you've not read 'The Opal Deception' and don't want me to spoil a big secret, run away now! _

_*  
_

**Chapter One**

It was the second time Artemis had woken up here. The first was a few hours ago. Everything had been a nightmare of rushing darkness. All he could remember was being in the limousine, cruising through the gates of the manor, and then there had been noise and heat and fire and screams, and he woke to nothing. People were bustling here and there, and though he couldn't see them, he could hear them. Talking, calling, laughing, looming above him and everything was different. The car was gone. His mother's screams still rang in his ears. Aggressive, malicious shapes surged towards him, fingers digging into his arm, a needle plunged into the flesh and everything was quiet again.

He'd learnt his lesson since then. Upon waking this time, he didn't cry out for his parents. He didn't demand answers. He hadn't tried to struggle out of bed to find Butler, to find out what happened, what happened to the other passengers in the car. Now, he just laid still. If they knew he was awake, they would only drug him again.

The pain in his body was incredible, and made only worse by the fact that it was the only sense he had to concentrate on. Everything was horrifically silent. All he could smell was anti-bacterial bleach, rubber and plastic, gas, the pungent tang of hospital bedsheets. He didn't know what time it was, or even if it was night or day. All he knew was the discomfort of a hard hospital mattress, plastic sheets tucked so tightly he was damp with his own sweat, and a cold pillow smothering his right cheek. His left ankle was suddenly heavy. All over his body, his skin burnt and prickled and seared, rubbing against the crinkled plastic sheets whenever he breathed,and he was too tired to move. His throat wouldn't work when he tried to speak. If somebody was there, he could negotiate, ask for help and pray they were merciful. He didn't want another needle. No sound came from his cracked lips though. His face felt tight and burnt, like the barren surface of a desert. Even blinking hurt.

The worst pain of all came from inside though. As he blinked, he saw nothing. His eyes wandered impossible, eternal nothing, not even darkness there to comfort him, just nothing, on and on forever. His brain was too numb to cope with the implications of such a thing, even if his subconscious realised.

The tears scalded his skin as they rolled down his cheeks. He felt like a broken puppet, every string snapped, so exhausted and helpless, so undignified. Suddenly, he was alone. He couldn't even see where.

Was this death? his terrified mind thought. Was this a coffin? Worse, the mortuary? A doctor's table for the autopsy? Did the conscious mind continue after death, every nerve still capable of feeling, but condemned to eternal nothing? If this was death, then how could he cry? Perhaps it was nature's last cruel blow, to leave him with only one human power, to weep for himself when there was nobody to dry his tears.

His mind cast back. All he could remember was sliding into the leather seat of the limousine next to Butler, putting on his sunglasses, and his parents were conversing in the back. His mother was glowing with happiness. A family holiday at last, she was saying, how long she'd waited for this. The car meandered towards the gates of the manor, the open road beyond, and then the explosion. Being pitched forward and crushed against the front window, the car hurled to one side, his mother screaming, and everything crumpled around him. The heat burnt him from the inside-out. Glass glittered on every side and drove inwards, piercing, collapsing around him as if wanting to break him into every individual cell.

What happened to his mother and father? To Butler? Had they died too? The blast had come from the back of the car, if it had been capable of throwing him against the windscreen. Something planted in the trunk, triggered by passing through the gates. If he was right, then his mother and father wouldn't have stood a chance. The ceiling would have buckled and the exhaust gases would have ignited before they knew what was happening.

But Butler? He could have withstood the explosion. He wouldn't have crumpled like a rag doll, like Artemis.

More tears cascaded down his face. He felt so weak and he needed help, for the first time in his life, he was defenseless. His heart twisted at the bitter irony. Only when he was ready to admit he needed help, he needed somebody, there was nobody. The air in his lungs was red hot but he needed more, and so he gulped it down, a dry sob breaking his lips at the overwhelming pain.

And somebody spoke.

"Artemis?"

He wept down another mouthful of air, wanting to cry out, wanting to scream that he was alive, he was here, but the words couldn't come. They didn't need to. He was noticed. Somebody shifted closer, the scrape of a chair, and a hand laid on his forehead. It felt like the only patch of skin that wasn't burnt, blistered and broken. Though it drove knifewaves of agony through him, he tilted his head, nuzzling into the fingers.

Butler's voice was like a candle in the darkness. "It's okay. It's alright, I'm here... I'm here... it's me, Artemis..." Gently, a thumb dampened in some unknown liquid was soothed across his forehead, around his lips, the bridge of his nose. "Can you hear me?"

He managed a dry, broken whimper. The wetness trickling down his face was cool and his skin seemed to drink it in, soaking up every drop. As strong fingers brushed the tickling hairs off his burns, he knew he had never been so grateful for his manservant.

"Everything's going to be alright," he was promised. Cool fingers were running over his scalp, wetting his hair, and the kind rhythm had Artemis hypnotised. The pain seemed to dull. Of course, he reasoned in his broken mind. Butler scared away every enemy. Nobody dared to hurt him when Butler was here. Not even agony itself.

The crumpled plastic was loosened carefully, guided back, so the air could touch his skin. Dully, Artemis registered that there was another person here. This person was just as kind though. Butler would know if it was somebody here to hurt him. He trusted the fingers in his hair more than life now.

"Just painkillers," Butler murmured softly. Artemis didn't even know when they had been put in. When he was so crippled by pain everywhere else, the brush of a needle by gentle hands was nothing. Butler was here now as well. It didn't hurt when Butler was here. Using up the last flicker of energy in his body, he let his head roll back, pressing his forehead into his manservant's palm, wanting the older man to know he was here and he was ultimately thankful.

"I'm just down the hall, if you need me," a female voice said quietly. "The cream should help with his burns, but he mustn't move too much. Sleep will do him the most good."

"Thankyou," said Butler's voice. Artemis listened to the sound of heels leaving the room, a door closing, and gentle quiet returned again. He nudged weakly at Butler's hand. Wet fingers returned to his hair. Hours began to pass.

*

Shortly after half past four in the morning, Artemis returned to sleep. He was still incredibly weak and could do little more than tilt his head and breathe, but it was a massive improvement. Butler had spent a week at his bedside now, listening to the bleep of his heart monitor, watching the youth slip away and fight back from the claws of death, never once moving. The doctors had feared a coma at first. According to the laws of science, it was a miracle that Artemis had survived in the first place. The impact was enough to have killed any normal person; it made quick work of Master and Madam Fowl. Somehow, Artemis had clung on though.

Even after the impact, his injuries were horrific. Suffering with just one of his problems would be a major ordeal for anyone at all, yet Artemis was baring the weight of all of them. There was not really a part of his body that would be void of burn-marks years into the future. He had multiple scars from the glass and split metal that had caved in around him. His left ankle was very badly broken in something like four places, his right wrist was in a sling, several fractured ribs and then the most monumental, lasting injury. When the explosion took place, Artemis had only just put on his designer sunglasses. According to the doctors, and Butler didn't like to think too deeply into this, the lenses had shattered as he hit the windscreen of the car. The fragments were pushed back into his eyes. Nothing could have protected his sight from that.

Many of the nurses were reluctant to look at Artemis's broken body. They spoke directly to Butler, staring determinedly into his eyes, and came and left quickly with averted eyes. Many of them had written him off as dead the moment he had come in. Only a few angels existed in the ward, mostly those that worked the night-shift, and it was the reason that Butler stayed loyally by Artemis's side through the day. Only when the hospital was quiet and the nurses were trustworthy did he ever leave the private room set aside for Artemis.

As the Fowl heir's slumbering breaths ghosted over his palm, he drew his hand away. The boy would be safe now, at least for a few minutes. Seeing Artemis so shattered and helpless had been distressing for Butler as well, and he didn't wish to become emotional at this point. He needed to remain professional, for Artemis's sake. Quietly, he rose to his feet and moved to the door. Before he left, he glanced back. The young Irish boy was still sleeping, the blue plastic sheets rising and falling as he breathed.

Down the corridor in the waiting area, there were a series of vending machines that offered what had become Butler's staple diet over the past week. As he was waiting for his coffee to pour, he got himself a bag of crisps and a Yorkie, casting a smile to the nurse on duty. She was a kind lady, one of the few that were willing to help Artemis.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Much better," said Butler. "Asleep right now... I thought I'd get something to eat so I can be there when he wakes up."

She nodded, plucking the lid from her biro with her teeth. "Poor thing... I've never seen such bad injuries. Heaven knows how he survived."

Butler smiled weakly. "Sheer determination."

"Probably," she agreed. As she filled in a couple of notes, Butler picked up his coffee and blew the steam away, watching the froth swirl around the surface. The nurse put down her pen. "Has he said anything?"

Butler shook his head. "No, not yet. He's too weak really."

"Poor thing," she soothed sympathetically. "It's going to be hard for him, dealing with everything... losing his parents as well. It must be so awful. I can't even imagine... do you know what's going to happen on that issue?"

Nodding quietly, Butler said, "Mr and Mrs Fowl appointed me his guardian, and he stands to inherit the house. I think it would be best if I just take him home to where he's used to, to let him recover..."

Technically, most of this was not wholly true. Artemis's original appointed guardian was a distant cousin of his father who owned a number of small companies in Japan, only chosen because he was the last living relative Artemis had. Fowls had a habit of being assassinated young. Upon realising that Artemis would be shipped off to Tokyo like some faulty electronic gadget to be repaired, Butler had called in a few favours from their fairy friends. One changed document later, and Domovoi Butler was now the legal guardian of Artemis Fowl, responsible for the boy should anything happen to his parents. The will was adapted slightly. Originally, the manor was to be put into a trust until Artemis was eighteen, and even then it would be the responsibility of his Japanese guardian. No doubt it would have ended up as a warehouse or a development plant. Butler had tinkered with a couple of clauses in the will. Once he was let out of hospital, Artemis would have a comfortable, familiar home to return to.

"I think that will be best," the nurse said, nodding reassuringly. "He's got a lot to recover from. I'm sure he doesn't need a change of address as well."

Butler nodded - precisely his logic, though he didn't say it. He had another sip of his coffee, then asked a question that had been playing on his mind for the past week. "You don't know anything about his sight, do you?"

"Oh... yes, we do." She looked uncomfortable. "Well, the news isn't good. The doctors don't think he'll ever have his sight back the way it was. In time, he might be able to recognise shapes, bright colours, changes in light. They did consider surgery to see if they could save anything, but it would only have complicated his condition."

Fiddling with her pen awkwardly, she said, "He'll need a great deal of care once he's out of hospital. At first, he'll probably need round-the-clock supervision until he adapts."

"That's fine," said Butler. "I have a lot of time on my hands."

"Have you ever cared for a visually-impaired person before?"

Butler shook his head. "No. I'm very well-experienced in caring for Artemis though. I know he'd rather have me than a stranger, even if they do have more specialist knowledge than I do."

The nurse leant under the desk for a few moments, and when she returned, she had a number of leaflets and a small book in her hands. She handed them to him. "These should help," she said. "There's all you need to know... they all give wonderful advice. My little brother lost his sight when he was about nine."

Quietly, Butler tucked them into the pocket of his jacket. "Thankyou," he said, and he meant it.

Hesitating for a moment, she said, "You just have to be patient... it can be frustrating at first, but you mustn't let them know. There's nothing they can do about their situation. I suppose it's human nature to get angry and blame them for your frustration, but you mustn't."

She looked away.

"My brother won't speak to me anymore," she said quietly. "Don't let it happen to you."

"I won't," promised Butler. With a last grateful look, he turned and made his way back up the corridor, opening up the first leaflet and starting to read. He had a lot to learn, and in a very short time.


	2. The Marionette

*

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind****_  
by Mottlemoth  
_**

**_*  
_**

**Chapter Two**

Artemis slept for quite some time. Butler remained ever vigilant at his bedside, leaving only for a few minutes at a time to bring coffee or make a phone call, suddenly extremely protective of his young master. The Fowl heir's vulnerability had affected him more than he ever thought it would. Deep down, he knew that if anything happened to Artemis now, he would never forgive himself. The guilt would tear him apart. Artemis Fowl had nobody else in the world left. Dependency was a foreign and unfriendly concept to him. Now, he had to rely on Butler for everything, and his manservant was determined to help him through.

The leaflets were all highly informative. They explained in kind, reassuring tones that it would take a lot of hard work, but being blind wasn't necessarily a disability. Many people without their sight still lived full, satisfying lives. The key was patience, care, consideration and respect. Butler already had these things in ample supply for his young employer. His priority would be for Artemis to be comfortable enough so that he could adapt and evolve into his new world, and Butler knew he could look after his master well enough.

Just as he was finishing the last of the leaflets, he heard Artemis's blankets shift and looked up. He was waking slowly, groggy from such a long sleep and stung once more by the pain that consciousness brought. By the time that the first whimper came, Butler was scooting his chair closer, putting down the book, reaching out to rub his thumb over Artemis's forehead.

"I'm here," he said quietly. Artemis's face was a mess. The professional part of Butler's mind that was trained to kill informed him that when Artemis was slammed against the windscreen, he must have turned his head to one side. The explosion had seized hold of the skin it was offered. A shining patch of raw scarlet was burnt onto the gentle white of Artemis's skin like a mask, spread all over the left side of his face, gruesome to behold and even worse to imagine. At the moment, the youth had his right cheek into the pillow. If anybody thought that side might have been saved, they were wrong. That was where the glass had shattered.

Trying not to think of how the boy was going to cope, Butler raked some of his hair back gently, tucking it behind his ear. "The nurse gave you a shot of painkillers not too long ago... they should kick in soon..."

Artemis tilted his face wearily into Butler's palm. The Eurasian almost wanted to cup his cheek reassuringly, but knew the burns would cripple Artemis if he tried it.

"Oh, that reminds me... I have to put your burn cream on," he said softly. "Just to help them heal faster... it won't hurt. It might tingle a little, but that's all. Do you want me to do it now?"

A faint noise passed Artemis's lips, a cross between a whimper and a huff of air. It sounded a little like 'no'. Butler decided to give his young master the benefit of the doubt and traced the pad of his thumb over Artemis's temple, lightly.

"That's okay, we can do it in a while," he said reassuringly.

It was odd talking to Artemis this way. Usually, Artemis was the one who began the conversations, and they were mostly about either a mission or some plan that the Fowl heir had up his sleeve. The youth didn't need to spell it out for Butler to be constantly reminded that he was a servant, always a servant. Now though, things felt different. He was Artemis's guardian for a start. Technically, his superior.

The room was growing stuffy and warm as the summer evening settled in. Thinking that Artemis might appreciate a little cool air, Butler asked, "Do you want the window open? It might cool you down a bit."

This time, Artemis made a different noise. It was a rising sort of whimper, agreeing, and Butler took it as 'yes'. He stood, opened the window, and as he sat back down his young master made a quiet noise of thanks.

Smiling, Butler let his thumb stroke over the boy's forehead again. "The doctor says the burns around your mouth will heal very quickly, if we keep putting the salve on... after that, talking will be a lot easier... give it a few months, you'll be back to normal."

Artemis was silent. After a moment, the boy made his 'no' noise and turned his head slowly, hiding his face against the pillow and Butler's hand. Butler tucked his hair back for him, his chest heavy, and decided to approach the most serious issue.

"Artemis, I don't want you to worry about your sight... the doctors are doing everything they can. Even if we end up with the worst case scenario, I'm here for you. You won't be alone in any of this. I promise."

With only the briefest of hesitations, Artemis nuzzled into his palm. Butler traced a thumb down the bridge of his nose, avoiding the edges of the burn.

"When you're out of hospital, I'll be taking you home to the manor," he said softly. "It's all going to be okay."

Artemis was moving. Butler was about to tell him to lie still and rest, before realising that if Artemis was trying to move, it was something he desperately wanted to do. He waited. Face tightened beneath the burn, the young boy slowly lifted a hand. His fingers were shaking with the strain. Despite the agony that must have been stabbing through his body, he wrapped his palm over Butler's. Aching, desperate relief and satisfaction came to his face.

Butler felt a lump in his throat.

He entwined their fingers, aware of how many bones had been shattered in Artemis's wrist, and held onto the boy's hand. Artemis's breathing was soft and slow again. He seemed content.

Butler was just about to suggest the burn cream, thinking that this comfortable moment would be a good time, when he heard Artemis speak. It was not his whimpers for yes and no, nor just a simple noise, but a word. It was strained, tired, fearful, but it was there. And it made his heart flip over within his ribcage.

"D'movoi..."

"I'm here," he promised. He had never known that Artemis could tug gently at his heartstrings in such a way, without even meaning to. He was like an innocent child playing with a marionette. "I'm always here..."

Quietly, Artemis curled his fingers around Butler's hand, feeling sleep tickling him under the chin. Just speaking and moving that little bit had drained the energy from his body. Within the gentle calm of his mind, he registered the snap of a lotion bottle lid. The burn cream, he supposed. Sure enough, a moment passed before Butler touched his cheek, his fingers cool and slippery. It only tingled for a second or two.

As the cream was applied, Artemis laid still and co-operated in the only way he could. Butler was concentrating on his face for the moment. Each movement was very kind and considerate, and even in his dazed mind, the Fowl heir could appreciate the concern being put into this single act. All throughout, Butler kept a hold on his hand. That anchor in the ocean of nothing was infinitely comforting to Artemis.

As Butler carefully worked the cream into the worst of the burns on his throat, the Fowl heir wondered what would have happened if his manservant had died. He would be manhandled by nurses, jabbed with needles, shoved into a ward full of people, left alone at night, packed off to Tokyo for the rest of his life. The thought alone brought tears to his eyes again. If Butler weren't here, he would probably have died long ago now, countless times.

He wasn't sure if it was scarier facing a lifetime as a blind orphan, or realising that for the first time, he needed somebody just to keep living.

He squeezed Butler's hand. Butler squeezed back.

"It's all alright," came the soft whisper, from somewhere a million miles away and yet an inch from his ear. "I'm still here."

_Don't ever leave_, thought Artemis. _I need you._


	3. I Hate Cars

***  
**

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind ****_  
by Mottlemoth_**

**_*  
_**

**Chapter Three**

If it had been up to Butler, he would have taken Artemis home within a day of him coming into consciousness again. The hospital weren't prepared to let that happen. Six weeks minimum, they said, and then they would review Artemis's case. It was the longest six weeks of Butler's life. The doctors suggested he go home and come back a few times a week to see Artemis and keep him company, but Butler was not leaving. He stayed loyally at his young master's side through every physical exam, every specialist coming in to poke and prode him, every medical student invited to get a closer look at the scar tissue forming at the edge of each burn.

Artemis's recovery was admirable. Through what could only have been a stubborn longing to go home, the Fowl heir struggled through everything thrown at him. Within a couple of weeks, he was speaking again, even if it hurt. The burns seemed to shrink more and more with every passing day. Each morning and night, he made a point of getting out of bed and at least testing his broken ankle, aided by Butler, who stood behind him to support his weight every step of the way.

One thing that was not recovering was his sight. It was becoming increasingly clear that very little would ever bring Artemis's eyes back to him. The boy began to adapt to his environment though. Soon, he had come to understand where everything was in the room, listening to Butler describe it and memorising every little detail. In his fifth week at the hospital, nurses would come in and tidy things up, chatting to the patient, not even realising he was blind. Butler was quite certain that Artemis purposely gave off an air of perfect vision. Any sympathy was brushed valiantly aside. The only time that Artemis had shown any frustration was when Butler moved a chair without telling him, throwing the boy's world into confusion. Butler was sure never to move anything again.

To the rest of the hospital, Artemis was coming on in brave leaps and bounds, tackling each obstacle with incredible courage. There was a great deal of admiration for the young man. However, only Butler knew that this show of strength was only that - a show. Artemis remained in a great deal of pain. He was paranoid about being left alone. Though neither ever mentioned it, they were both aware of one simple fact. Artemis needed Butler. He was suddenly dependent, and it scared him. No matter how many nurses and cleaners he could fool, the Fowl heir was reliant on Butler for everything.

They had grown closer in these six weeks than they had ever been. Saving Artemis's life time after time was one thing. Rebuilding it was another. He had committed every piece of advice to memory now, determined he would not provide Artemis with substandard care, and found he was learning something new everyday. As soon as he was able to sit up, touch things and speak, Artemis had wanted Butler close to him at all times. He kept himself in contact with the older man. Sometimes, he would lay a hand on Butler's face just to investigate his expression, or play with his manservant's fingers, rub the material of his shirt quietly, search over the buttons on his watch.

In these sessions, Butler was reminded of Artemis as a child. He'd always been an infinitely curious little boy. Every new sensation was regarded with the utmost fascination and investigated thoroughly, as if he had never come across something quite so wonderful in his life. He remembered a toy Artemis had absolutely adored - a box with a lid that had shapes cut out of it, and various blocks to push through the holes. This had offered hours of endless amusement. Touch had always been important to the tiny Artemis, and he had explored everything he got his little hands on. Butler remembered some very fond times, fishing the young Fowl heir out of washing baskets and shrubbery and cupboards, carrying him off to wash his face before Madam Fowl saw the state her young son had gotten himself into.

And now, sixteen years later, Artemis was still fascinated by touch. Butler even began to indulge him. He would wear a certain shirt, change Artemis's blankets to something new, supplying him subtly with new textures to enjoy. The youth seemed subconsciously grateful, even if he never said the words.

It was the sixth week now, late in the afternoon. Artemis had finished his evening meal, stretched his ankle briefly and curled into Butler's side, settling down with a book. Butler had fetched a boxful from his young master's room at Fowl Manor as soon as Artemis made the request. Having worked through most of them now, they were returning over an old favourite.

"It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones."

Butler had a wonderful reading voice, Artemis had decided a few weeks ago now. He was a most wonderful person to read with in general. There was something cosy about being tucked into the large Eurasian's side, head resting on a shoulder very well-padded with muscle, listening to the words of _Jane Eyre_ and losing himself in Miss Bronte's world.

"_Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and well-dressed, she even smiled_." There was the sound of a page being turned. Artemis settled closer. Just as Butler began the next sentence, another noise made Artemis pause, listening. The door to his room, he recognised. The voice of one of the ward sisters spoke.

"Mr Butler? The doctor's report had just come through. He says that he thinks you're perfectly capable of caring for Artemis yourself now, and his recovery will be faster at home. Do you need any help getting things packed up?"

"No," said Butler. "Thankyou, but I think we'll be fine. A taxi would be wonderful, if you can manage it."

"Of course," she said. "I'll have it arranged straightaway."

The door closed. Artemis held still as Butler gathered him up, helping him sit on the edge of the bed. "Is there much to pack up?" he asked.

"No, not much. Just a couple of things. I can grab them though." Butler was doing something, and when he returned to within touching-distance, he had a coat in his hands. Artemis reached out for it. He carefully found the sleeves, and with a little help from Butler, he managed to struggle into it. Once he had it on, Butler's fingers were notably absent, and Artemis had a good idea why. His manservant often left him tasks to do by himself - buttons, brushing his hair, things like that. Some people might have seen it as patronising, but Artemis found himself rather touched. He was grateful for the consideration.

As he set about the buttons on his coat, Butler was doing things. Bags were zipped, things were picked up and clinked together, books thumped gently, tucked into unknown places, poppers clicked into place. It was a symphony of mysterious little noises. Artemis had learnt not to trouble himself with such things. He trusted Butler to know what he was doing. Butler noises were nothing to worry about.

A noise that was not a Butler noise came to his attention a few minutes later, as the door opened. Instinctively, he went still. There was a squeak of wheels. Butler made a grateful noise. "Ah, thanks. I was just wondering how we were going to manage that. I think we have everything packed now."

"Will you need any help carrying the bags?"

"No, I can manage. Thanks again."

"It's okay," said the nurse.

Artemis had learnt to let conversations such as these pass over him. It was peculiar how not being able to see suddenly made you invisible to everybody else. In time, he would probably come to find the useful side of the labels now given to him. People did seem to underestimate those with what was seen as a fault, as if being blind made him deaf and dumb as well. He knew it would take a long time before he came to terms with such disrespect.

Butler appeared near him. He knew it was his manservant by the scent, something Artemis had become very familiar with in the past few weeks, and the way he was touched with such consideration.

"Wheelchair," he said. "To help with your ankle."

Artemis nodded. Some stubborn, foolishly proud part of him wanted to walk on his own, as he knew he could, but the part still capable of logical thought told him not to make an un-necessary stand. Resting his weight upon Butler's hulking physical form, he levered himself carefully to his feet.

It was at this point that things began to go wrong. Artemis was stable on his feet, happy to bare his own weight now he had been assisted into standing, but the nurse had other ideas. He recognised the voice. This was one of them that spoke only to Butler, never to him, as if he was a lower lifeform and didn't deserve recognition.

She put her hands on his back, insincerely kind, and nudged the wheelchair into the back of his knees. "Come on," she cooed. "That's it, just sit down for me."

Artemis snapped.

"I'm blind," he spat, "not crippled. Not ignorant. Not mentally damaged. I can remember how to sit down by myself."

She drew away. As far as he was concerned, she was gone. He sat down in the chair, calm and composed after such brief anger, and reached up to undo the knot of the blindfold around his eyes. In truth, there was no medical reason for this. He preferred it though. Butler had explained what it was that blinded him, shards of his own sunglasses and the fragments of glass that also riddled his body in scars. Artemis didn't need his eyes to imagine what his face would look like now. At least the blindfold prevented him from being seen a mutant as well as brainless.

The wheelchair was nudged forward gently. Butler, he recognised, even though he didn't know how. As he was wheeled somewhere that went unexplained, he redid his blindfold and settled. After a few minutes of pushing, he recognised the sound of elevator doors, and a bump that meant they were moving inside. The doors closed. Silence returned. His stomach jolted gently as the elevator moved. Whether up or down, Artemis had no idea.

"Stupid woman," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry she treated you like that," said Butler. "I should've - "

"No, Butler, it's alright... she doesn't understand. She can't be blamed really." Artemis sighed, tilting his head back slightly. "I... Butler, are we alone in this elevator?"

"Yeah, just us."

"I feel odd. I feel wrong. I feel that... that some part of me actually needs help, but people take things too far. I need people to tell me where things are and be my eyes. I just... I don't want them to be the rest of me as well. I dislike this opinion that I'm missing a sense, and therefore useless."

Butler was quiet for a few moments. Artemis waited patiently, until his bodyguard spoke, and the words were more comforting that Artemis could ever have predicted.

"People probably feel awkward dealing with somebody who can't see. The instinct would be to exaggerate everything you do, so they know what is going on, or just to leave them out of it and not confuse them. People are ignorant I'm afraid, Artemis. All I can promise is that I'll try to be different. If I start slipping up, put me straight."

"I will," promised Artemis. The elevator jolted to a stop, the doors slid open, and suddenly there was an awful lot of noise. Reception announced messages to all patients over an intercom that crackled and flared like fireworks in a box. Even as they were moving, Artemis felt people brushing past and heard their shoes tapping on the floor. All he could do was blank himself off and wait until it was over.

As they left reception into the outside air, he let out a breath and shifted, uncomfortable. "Is the taxi here yet?"

"No, not yet. It won't be long though."

"I certainly hope so." Artemis tightened the jacket around him, pulling the collar up. He hated being in public like this. "Butler?"

"Yes?"

"When we get back home, we'll need to make some changes to the manor... I could do with some help."

As he instinctively followed an approaching car with his eyes, Butler felt a quiet pang inside of his chest. He knew Artemis not only 'could do with some help', he would need all the help in the world. His young employer would just never admit such a thing. Quietly, he put his hand on Artemis's shoulder.

"I know," he said. "I can help however much you need. What sort of changes were you thinking of?"

"Clearing out some clutter, especially in my room. I think it would be best if we did something about the stairs as well." Artemis paused, apparently struggling with putting his thoughts into words. "I... well, I don't want to be confined to my room for the rest of my life. I won't be sprinting down the halls at any point in the near future. I'd just like to have some freedom, that's all."

"We can do that," said Butler reassuringly. "Would it be best if we moved most of your things onto the ground floor? We could convert some of the rooms."

Artemis nodded thoughtfully, murmuring, "Yes... something like that." There was a very heavy pause, before he said, "We won't need a library anymore."

Another pang crossed Butler's chest. Squeezing Artemis's shoulder, he said, "We will. I can read to you."

"Thankyou," said Artemis quietly. "For everything."

"It's okay," said Butler. "You know there's nothing I won't do to make things easier for you. It might be difficult, but we've had difficult before."

Artemis made a noise of quiet amusement. "It was easier crawling my way through a nuclear plasma tunnel than sitting here right now. I suppose it's ironic really. I've cheated death so many times that fate decided to cripple me with something it knew I would find worse than death. Being helpless."

"You're not helpless," said Butler reassuringly. "There's plenty of things you can do. It might take a while to adjust, but we'll learn together. Perhaps the criminal schemes will become a little less adventurous from now on."

"How am I supposed to rob a bank I can't even see?"

"You'll find a way, Artemis," said Butler with a tiny smile. Their taxi was sneaking along the road to the hospital, turning into the ambulance bay. "Taxi's here. Let's get you home."

Artemis curled his hands around the arms of the wheelchair, sitting back as he was nudged into motion once more. The ground beneath him rumbled quietly. All he could think was of home, Fowl Manor, and how comforting it would be to sink into his own bed again. Eating something other than hospital food would probably feel like heaven.

Being loaded into the taxi was slightly undignified, but eventually, he was settled on the squeaky leather seat next to Butler, who had an arm protectively around his shoulders.

"Fowl Manor," his manservant said, and gave directions how to get there. The whole car jerked gently into life. Trying to ignore the feeling of worry lodged in his stomach, Artemis pressed his cheek against Butler's shoulder. His bodyguard patted him reassuringly. "You okay?"

"I hate cars," muttered Artemis.

Both were quiet for a moment, before Butler rested his chin on the top of Artemis's head. "I know."

There was more quiet. Artemis was thinking, trying to ignore the worst thoughts and concentrating on ones he hadn't really addressed yet, an event that he had pushed right to the back of his mind. There had been no time to ponder such things just yet. He supposed he had a lot of pondering time now though. An awful lot.

He turned his face into Butler's shoulder, breathing in the other's entirely masculine scent. Two months ago, if Artemis had found himself in such a position with his bodyguard, he would have been over the moon. Now though, it reminded him of nothing but his injuries and losses. He knew deep down that Butler was only hugging him, being so protective, so caring, because Artemis was vulnerable. He was weak.

It was about six months ago that Artemis had first looked at Butler. Soon after the defeat of Opal Koboi, Artemis celebrated his sixteenth birthday, and afterwards found himself sharing a bottle or something or other with Butler. The details were fuzzy. They had fallen asleep in the lounge. When Artemis woke up, he found himself lying on Butler's chest, rising and falling as his manservant breathed. Butler's sleeping face had awoken terrifying, thrilling, wonderful desires deep down within Artemis.

He denied it for a month or so, and almost managed to convince himself it was merely strong admiration. He knew that teenagers often fell in love with teachers, even ones the same sex as themselves, purely through respect. Surely, the same thing had happened with Butler. It almost explained the light, excited feeling that Artemis got in his stomach whenever they were close, even if Butler just spoke to him or looked his way.

Two months in though, he had begun to accept. He had trawled through a great deal of websites with titles like "_Sexuality for Teens_", "_So You Think You're Gay?_", "_When Guys Are Suddenly Cute_", and so forth. Beneath all the patronising prattle, he actually uncovered some very sound advice. He had not really come to a conclusion yet. All he knew was that he had a crush on Butler. It might pass, it might not, and he mustn't label himself because of such a thing. Things had cooled after that. He even thought it had passed by. The phase was over.

Then there was the night before the crash. He couldn't even remember what had sparked the debate, but somehow, they had ended up talking very long and late into the night. Midnight came and went. They had simply connected in a way Artemis never had with another person, and he went to bed with his crush once more in full bloom. All he wanted was to be near Butler.

It was the reason that next morning when his mother patted the seat next to him, invited him to join them in the back, he gratefully declined and sat with Butler in the front. If he'd sat in the back, he would have been blown to pieces.

He didn't know what he felt of Butler now. His instincts said nothing. The shock of the crash, his parents' deaths and his disability was enough to drive away any and all thoughts of romance. Besides, he had already been told quite firmly by the various internet sites that the chances were Butler was not gay, and doing something stupid would destroy their friendship. Even gentle flirtation could ruin everything.

Searching his heart, he tried to work out what he felt right now, tucked into Butler's side, knowing he now needed to rely on his bodyguard for almost everything in his entire life. He tried to find the crush he had once had, the fluttering feeling in his stomach, but it wasn't there. He imagined what he would do if Butler suddenly turned and kiss him, announced undying and eternal love, offered to take him home and screw him into the mattress. All he felt was a faint feeling of anxiety.

A phase then, he decided. Nothing now.

He turned his head to bury his face in Butler's neck, blowing out a little puff of air, settling down to nap for the rest of the journey. Butler, oblivious, brushed his hair off his face and looked back out of the window, watching the cars fly by.


	4. Bare Feet and a Broken Ankle

*****

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind****_  
by Mottlemoth_**

**_*  
_**

**Chapter Four**

Being carried up the drive to Fowl Manor was an experience Artemis had no wishes to repeat. He felt like a rag doll, limp and boneless, as Butler plucked him out of the taxi and held him, bridal-style.

"Butler, I can walk, you know..."

"Not with bare feet and a broken ankle on a cobblestone drive," was the reply, as Butler moved down the path, Artemis's bags swinging gently and bumping against his back. The taxi drove away into the distance. As the boy and his bodyguard reached the front door, Butler hitched Artemis up carefully and wiggled the key into the lock, turning it, waiting for the click before nudging his way inside.

For Artemis, the scent almost took his breath away. It smelt like home. He had never really appreciated the wonderful aroma that Fowl Manor had, but now, he realised just how comforting and kind it was. He felt his worries instantly soothed. All he wanted was to find somewhere cosy to lie down and relax, to settle back into the joy of home. He was jolted around a little bit as Butler shut the door, but then they were alone again, and everything was quiet. He pressed his face into Butler's neck.

"Will you be okay carrying me to my room?" he asked.

"Of course," said Butler's gentle voice. Up the stairs they went. Artemis had a wonderful feeling of rising without having his feet on the ground, until they were wandering along a familiar corridor and he could picture what was passing on either side. Butler stopped. There was a click as the lock was opened up, and at last, after six weeks of longing, Artemis found himself back in his own bedroom.

Everything felt just as he had left it. Butler put him down on his bed, the same sheets he remembered from the night before his crash, and his feet were enrobed in the soft shag carpet he knew was beige. Reaching out a tentative hand, he felt through air and nothing for what seemed like an eternity before he found his bedside table. His fingers searched. He found the glass of water he'd left there six long weeks ago.

"I don't want much changed around," he said quietly. "Just a few things I don't need taken out. Nothing big. I want to be able to visualise it..."

"That's fine," said Butler. His gentle weight made the bed next to Artemis sag. "Whatever you want me to take out, tell me and I'll move it."

Carefully, using his hands to guide himself, Artemis managed to lie down upon his bed and spread himself out, filling the space. He felt content that he knew where he was. He could imagine everything. Lifting a foot, he pointed with his toes towards the corner he knew he had left his easel in.

"I won't need my easel... we can move it and bring one of the sofas from downstairs, perhaps. Somewhere else to sit would be useful. There's a lot of work to do... I know we've only just gotten home and you must be tired, but could we start as soon as possible? I don't want to relax into a place that's going to change so soon."

"Of course," said Butler. "We can start right away. Do you want me to get you something to eat, for while I'm shifting the furniture?"

Artemis thought about this for a moment. "A tray, with different bits of fruit on... apple, grapes, orange, some kiwi... perhaps a few slices of banana... some pear... you know the sorts I like, don't you?"

"I do," said Butler. He stood up. "I won't be long."

As his manservant left, Artemis snuggled deeper into the covers, reaching up to take off his blindfold, content to be home at long last. Things might be hard, but he knew he would manage, one way or another.

*

It took perhaps a fortnight for Artemis to settle into his life at home. Butler watched him every step of the way, seeing him progress and adapt and become more comfortable in what he could do. So far, Artemis was not trying anything particularly adventurous, and both of them were happy this way. At first, Butler had worried that Artemis would suddenly become determined to do everything, just for the sake of doing it and proving people wrong. Things were not like that though. Artemis seemed content to settle into a quiet, cosy lifestyle for now. He spent his days testing what he could and could not comfortably do, occasionally asking to be read to, spending a lot of time getting to know the new layout of his bedroom. Naturally, most of his day passed by there. Butler was by his side nearly all of the time, leaving only to bring meals or other needed things.

As things began to adopt a state of normality, Butler found himself feeling strong sympathy for Artemis. The youth never had a word of complaint, but his manservant knew deep down that Artemis would quickly grow bored. The possibility of a family member becoming blind had never occurred to the Fowls. The manor had nothing to keep Artemis occupied.

He brought this issue up one early morning when Artemis was still asleep, and Butler was in the kitchen preparing his breakfast, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear. Some of the helplines were incredibly helpful. Butler was now on first name terms with one particular company.

"I just worry that he's going to get bored, that's all. I hate to see him with nothing to do. He's not the sort of person to sit back and do nothing all day. Before his accident, he lived a very active life."

"I understand," she said kindly. "Well, what kind of person is he? Sporty?"

"Not really. He was very creative." Smiling to himself as he pricked the sausages, Butler added, "He loves art."

"Hmm, that could be difficult with his particular disability. Make it clear to him that if his treatment works and he regains slight sight, art could be a possibility, even if just brightly coloured patterns on very big canvases. Have you considered sculpture at all?"

"No, but now you mention it, that could be very good. He won't be able to see the finished thing though, will he?"

"It doesn't really matter," she said brightly. "A lot of people with vision problems find that texture and touch becomes their new primary sense. He'll be able to create something with an interesting shape, and then 'look' at it afterwards, through touch. We'd make a painting by seeing what colours look nice together, then appreciate it by seeing. He'll create something by touching, and appreciate by touching."

Butler nodded slightly, moving across the kitchen to start squeezing out some orange juice. "I understand. Sculpture could be good, I'll see if I can get some materials ordered in."

"Good," she said. "Is he quite a 'touching' sort of person? When you're communicating with him, is he eager to sit close to you or feel your facial expression with his hands?"

"I'd say so," said Butler. Artemis was indeed quite touchy-feely now, but in a nice way. He would put his fingers on the side of Butler's face to feel when he smiled, and liked to be close. The boy's fingers toyed absent-mindedly with any fabric he came across. "Actually, yes. He's quite fond of material. He picks out his clothes by what the fabric feels like now."

"I see," she said. "Have you considered finding him different textures to explore? Some people try collage with different textured materials, sticking down pasta and sand and so forth. I know a lot of younger children very much appreciate texture blankets. They're easy to make. Just take different squares of material, as many different textures as possible, and sew them together into a blanket."

"I'll give it a try," he said. After a few more drops, he plucked the glass of juice from under the machine and carried it across the kitchen, placing it down on Artemis's breakfast tray. "Do you think music would be a good idea? He always loved classical music and he likes to have it on if ever I'm not around, just for something to listen to."

"Yes, of course. Listen to what he likes. If he shows an interest in something, it's very much worth indulging him in it. Have you thought of audio books?"

"I have a few coming from an internet site soon," said Butler. "I considered braille as well. I'm sure he could pick it up at lightning speed. Do you know any good resources I could get for him?"

"I can send you some through the post, if you can give me your address."

Butler gave her it as he wandered up the stairs, breakfast tray balanced in his hands, phone still wedged beneath his muscly shoulder and his ear. As soon as he was done, she chirruped, "Thankyou, love. I'll get the resources to you as soon as possible. Try some of the ideas and get back to me to let me know how it went. We're always here to talk to if you need a helping hand."

"Thankyou," he said. "I will. Nice talking to you."

He put the phone down, tucked it into his pocket and nudged open the door to Artemis's bedroom. His young master was still in bed, but awake, and he had something red and plastic in his hands.

"Artemis?"

The youth held out whatever it was he had. "I found this in my bedside cabinet. It's a dog, isn't it?"

Butler checked. It was a small plastic animal, meant for a child, and goodness only knew how long it had been in there for. "Yes, I think so. It's either a dog or a wolf, something like that. I was never much of an animal specialist."

Artemis chuckled softly with amusement. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

"It is," said Butler. He smiled, sitting on the edge of Artemis's bed and placing the tray in front of his young master, who sat up slightly, untangling himself from the blankets.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Mm?"

"Outside, when you were coming up the stairs."

"The nice woman from one of the helplines. I was asking about things that might be more interesting for you than what we have at the moment."

"You're too good to me," said Artemis. He pressed his cheek to his manservant's shoulder, picked up his cutlery and began to eat with a great deal of care. He took his time to get to know the plate and its contents until he knew more or less where everything was, then tucked in. Butler watched him, quietly fascinated. After a few mouthfuls, the young man asked, "And what advice did the nice woman from the helpline give?"

Butler reached out to rub Artemis's shoulder gently. "All sorts. I'm going to order a few things from the internet later. If you think of anything you'd like, don't hesitate to tell me. I'm sure my credit card can flex a little."

"Mmhmm, presents..." Smiling all over his face, Artemis moved closer into Butler's side. He chuckled as an arm was wrapped around his shoulders. Butler found himself smiling as well, relaxing, watching the youth as Artemis continued to eat. His skill at feeding himself despite his lack of sight had improved steadily over the past fortnight, and he was now a natural, even if still very careful. Once he had cleared his plate, he searched for the orange juice he knew would be there. Butler guided his hands, made sure he had a steady grip, then let him do the rest for himself. It was rewarding for both of them when Artemis accomplished something small and simple on his own.

"What would you like to do today?" asked Butler, and Artemis shrugged a little bit.

"I'm not sure. I might have a bath and listen to some music." The youth yawned quietly, putting down his orange juice and tucking more comfortably into Butler's side. His manservant began to pet gently at his hair. Utterly content, Artemis relaxed, and even began to purr.

Long, cosy minutes passed with no need for words, both of them lost in thought, before Artemis broke the silence.

"Butler?"

"Mm?"

"Thankyou."

"What for? I make you breakfast everyday, you've never thanked me before."

"Not just for breakfast. For everything." Breathing in gently, the masculine aroma of his bodyguard played around Artemis's nose. At times like this, he could remember why he had been attracted to Butler in the first place. Anybody would adore somebody so protective and caring as a lover. For a moment, Artemis's mind wandered down a rather scary path. If he had died, there might have been a very happy woman in the world somewhere, who could have snapped Butler up now that he had no other commitments. As it was, there was no way any member of the Butler family could expect any kind of relationship at all, short-term or long-term, in or outside of Fowl Manor. Butlers had other things to worry about than love.

Another worrying thought occurred to Artemis. Whenever he thought of Butler having a wife, a family, he felt a prickle low in his stomach. He hoped it was just childish jealousy, the same way little boys were envious of their new baby sisters. Somehow, he didn't think it was that. Even if his conscious mind was not ready to accept it, those feelings for Butler might not have been totally gone.

Suddenly struck by how lucky he was, he tightened his arms quietly around Butler's waist. "I appreciate you very much, you know that, don't you?"

He heard Butler chuckle softly. "It's alright, Artemis. You know I don't mind giving you the extra attention." A hand stroked through his hair, brushing it back, and Butler said, "You're not worried about anything, are you?"

"No," said Artemis quietly. "I just want you to know how grateful I am that you're here with me, not somewhere else."

"I'm not going anywhere soon," promised Butler. He squeezed Artemis's shoulder gently. "Want me to go run your bath for you?"

"I wouldn't mind it," said Artemis. He was lifted gently off Butler's lap, rested in the pillows instead, and his manservant moved away.

A few minutes later, Butler returned. "It's all ready."

"Thankyou," said Artemis. He held out his arms, and Butler moved into them, holding him gently and supporting him until he could stand on his own feet. Walking with Artemis was always a struggle for Butler. He didn't know if it would be kinder to guide his young master every step of the way, or just leave him to it himself. Either was just as likely to cause offence. He settled for walking at Artemis's side, only a step in front, keeping a close eye on the teenager and a hand on his arm to guide. Halfway there, Artemis grabbed his hand and held onto him properly. Quietly, Butler put an arm around the other's shoulders.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," said Artemis. He rested his cheek on Butler's shoulder, feeling safe and content now he was close again. "Look, Butler... I like your help. I want your help. When strangers are manhandling me and treating me like an inferior, I don't like it. I know you don't think of me that way." He tightened his fingers around Butler's hand. "Don't feel afraid of me. Please."

"I'm not," promised Butler quietly. He nosed into Artemis's hair, nudging open the door to the bathroom with one hand and leading the youth through. "If I'm intruding though, I want you to tell me. The last thing I want is to restrict your growth."

Artemis chuckled under his breath, though Butler caught it. "Holding my hand to show me the way to the bathroom is hardly restricting my growth."

Butler smiled. He moved Artemis to sit him on the bathside, finding him a towel and all the lotions he needed. Artemis still bathed on his own, even got himself out and dressed himself afterwards. The bathroom was comfortably small, with no hidden dangers lurking anywhere, and the youth was almost fiercely modest. In hospital, he had refused to let anyone see him naked, even though it meant writhing about under the covers in considerable pain.

"Will you be alright from here on?"

"Yes, I'll be fine... don't go far, will you?"

"I won't. I promise."

"Thankyou." Artemis smiled, reaching up to lay his fingers on the side of Butler's face, feeling his expression. "Smile, Butler. It does you a world of good."

Butler's lips curled upwards, not even needing his young employer's order to do such a thing. "Enjoy your bath," he said, and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him. Reaching out, he turned on the microphone by the door and made sure the receiver in his pocket was loud and clear, so he would be able to hear Artemis calling when he was done. He proceeded down the hall to Artemis's bedroom, and logged onto the internet.


	5. Inoperable

*****

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**_**  
by Mottlemoth**_

_***  
**_

**Chapter Five**

Being unaware of time had not been an issue in the hospital. Things happened when they happened, and the space inbetween involved little more than lying and wondering and experiencing all the pain that life had to give. The first fortnight of being home was a settling period. Furniture was moved, resources arrived, and Artemis adapted. That period was over now - everything was as it would be for the unforeseeable future. It meant that Artemis was expected to live again, to proceed through his existence, however dark.

With that realisation, Artemis suddenly became aware of time. The date wasn't so much of a problem - he only had to ask Butler once that week, and could work out the rest himself. Time was another matter. He abandoned minutes and hours, replacing it with a system of blocks throughout the day, something like a day at his old boarding school. Block two followed block one, but was preceeded by block three, and in the distant future was block four.

The system was clumsy at best, he knew. It worked though. With a little reliance on Butler, he managed to block his way through each day, content that things wouldn't change.

It was why the nights became nightmares.

If he slept from the time Butler left him until the time Butler returned, there was nothing to worry about. This was how it had been for the first two weeks - night had been as trivial as when he could still see.

Somehow that first fortnight seemed a long time ago now. He didn't know what awoke him on the thirteenth night, or why it only woke him then, why not before. He didn't know what time he had woken up. He didn't know what the room around him looked like, whether the moon was still in the sky, whether his bedroom door was closed or whether he was even alone. All he knew was that he awoke to silence and nothingness. Everywhere. Endless, and pressing in on him, and he laid where he was like he had first awoken in the hospital, lost, terrified. With his sight, he could have simply glanced and known he was safe. A further glance, and it would be two AM, or three AM, or just before midnight, and he could have slept on or left his bed to read, or comfort himself in the internet, browse through late night radio.

None of that meant anything now. He simply laid. Unable to open his eyes. Unable to sleep. Breathless, and frightened, wishing he knew the world around him.

After that, the thought of waking up at night began to terrify him. Whenever he did, he would lie rigid until morning and Butler came to rescue him, through hours and hours of the nothing that frightened him so much. The more he feared, the more he awoke. Some nights, Butler left him in the darkness and he was too scared of waking to sleep.

Before the accident, insomnia had been a rather close friend. He'd never seen it as a hindrance. Nighttime was just daytime, but darker and quieter, more the way he liked it. Even as a small child, he'd wandered freely through the shadows to the main library, curled up with a book and a candle, never considered ghosts and ghouls for a moment.

Now, he did. He felt as if madness was clawing at the edges of his mind. In the day, he could scorn himself and wonder why he didn't just roll over and coax himself to sleep again. When night came, the thoughts might as well have not been his own. He found himself wondering if ghosts could exist, and if they did, they would avoid those who saw the world through scientific eyes. They would come when those eyes were gone. The irony of evil, that ghosts could exist and he would never be sure that they didn't, because when he was lying at night, when Butler was gone, perhaps they walked his room. Perhaps they stood at his bedside and stared down at him. Perhaps their faces were held an inch from his own. Perhaps livid red eyes, hellish eyes, watched him from every corner and knew how vulnerable he was, how blind.

At night, he cried. He didn't dare make a sound though. He simply let the tears pour down his face - tears of frustration and fright, soaking the pillow, but he didn't have the courage to move and dry his face.

All human comforts had been taken from him. Turning on the light would make no difference. Checking the clock wouldn't help. He couldn't make himself a cup of camomile tea, or even just get out of bed, sit at the window and watch the moon.

Butler often left braille books by his bed. Artemis was picking it up, dot by dot, and could manage his way through one or two of the practice texts by now.

And the night was no different to the day - except in the day, he could find them. He could reach out and gather them into his lap, recognise the covers through his fingertips, work through them. At night, they were gone. He tried one time. He forced himself to sit up, to be scientific, to be logical and realise he was safe in a safe room. However hard he searched, he couldn't find them. It was as if his room had been stripped bare by the darkness.

He didn't tell Butler. In the daytime, he didn't know why he was frightened and always resolved to stop being so irrational, that tonight he would sleep easily. If he awoke at night, he was too frightened to reach for the intercom.

And what would he say? '_Butler, help, it's night time_'?

Butler slaved during the day for him. He bent double for Artemis - carrying, fetching, taking, bringing, finding, cooking, giving, reading, cleaning. And though Artemis refused to let himself feel like a nuisance, he knew that demanding Butler's night as well would cross the line. Butler did enough.

Artemis's only comfort was that there would be a breaking point. One day, one night, he would either go mad or be attacked by the silence in his room, or Butler would ask why he had become so suddenly nocturnal, why he was always shaking in the morning. Something would break. It had to.

*

Artemis awoke.

As always, it was sudden - one moment he could see, and was watching dreams play across his mind's eye, and the next there was nothing all over again. He tensed. A moment passed. The moment was all it took to realise, to remember, and cold prickled up the back of his neck.

"Butler?" he whimpered.

Nothing.

The panic began to set in, a horrible cold, as if he could feel the very darkness on his skin and it frightened him on levels deeper than anything ever had. He struggled against the fear. It wasn't enough to stop his fingers tightening in the sheets, to stop his muscles clamping down, to stop the prickling heat from creeping at the corners of his eyes.

_Not again. Not again, not again..._

The silence began to press on his ears, until it seemed almost loud, until it almost hurt. He could hear his heart beating, as if his body was desperate to cry down the silence. It didn't work. It didn't help.

He curled into himself. He so wanted to reach out, to touch his bedside table, just to reassure himself that everything was as it had been in the day light. Yet he didn't have the strength. For a moment he almost laughed, as he remembered all the things he had gotten through - hurtling along on top of a train, crawling through nuclear waste, taking on an entire race of technologically-advanced creatures. And now he was scared of the dark.

He'd been able to see all those old enemies though. They had flaws and limits, a physical shape. Not ghosts in the emptiness.

And it was on that thought that the tapping began.

Artemis froze. It was a soft sound, gentle, haunting - three tiny clicks somewhere nearby. Tap-tap-tap. Too quiet, too small, for him to tell what was in contact with what. His breath caught in his chest. The silence returned; on it lingered, almost mocking, refusing to give him any hint. Sure he was hallucinating, he tried to relax a little into the mattress. His muscles unwound a little.

And then again.

Tap-tap-tap. Harsher this time. More urgent. Artemis found himself tense, listening, and his heart was pounding now. Again, tap-tap-tap, and it was near. He didn't know where. Just near. Close. And then a scraping noise, a crackle, tap-tap-tap. Artemis was struggling to breathe, and something was in the room with him, scratching.

And suddenly, something brushed his hand. A flicker. He wrenched his hand back and before he could think, before he could draw breath, he was screaming. He opened his mouth and shrieked, not caring about his dignity, not caring about anything but somebody hearing him. He was curling into himself, screaming still, and his screams were breaking down into sobs as he struggled to breathe.

It was half a minute at most, perhaps not even that, before heavy footsteps were racing up the corridor, pounding against the floor, and with enough force to fire a cannon, the door was flung open. It crashed against the wall. Artemis threw out his arms.

Butler was at his side before Artemis had time to take another sob. The huge, muscular arms surrounded him and enrobed him, and he shuddered with relief, letting the tears course down his face. Butler held him.

"Something's tapping," he sobbed. "Something's tapping, there's something in here - ... something - ... something touched me, D-Domovoi - ... I don't sleep, I _can't_ - ... I can't breathe..."

"Shh... shh, shh..."

"There's something - ... it was tapping, I - ..." His voice faded away, lost, as he shuddered in Domovoi's protective arms. He curled tighter against the torso he now realised was bare; Domovoi slept in loose pants. Somehow his bodyguard seemed bigger, brawnier, when he was half-naked - startlingly so. He'd never realised how bulky Butler really was. It chased his thoughts away for a moment, and left him empty, before he remembered. He burrowed closer. "Domovoi, I... I heard a noise. There's something tapping. And it touched my hand."

"It's okay... there's nothing here, it's just me..." Domovoi's voice was so very soft, so caring, a possessive rumble low in his chest. It encircled Artemis as tenderly as his arms. "Where did you hear the noise?"

"Close," Artemis mumbled. He tightened his arms around his bodyguard's neck, wondering only for a second how they had gotten there. "I - ... somewhere to the left."

He felt Domovoi shift slightly, leaning back. There came the gentle shink of the curtains being opened. Domovoi squeezed him a little tighter.

"A scraping noise?"

"Scraping and tapping..."

"It's okay... there are tiny tree branches touching your window. Twigs. The wind must have moved them." There came a distant breath of wind, and then the noise, tap-tap-tap. "That noise?"

Artemis felt embarrassment flood through every vein in his body. He turned his face into Domovoi's throat. "I - ... Domovoi, I'm so sorry..."

"No, no need to apologise. It's okay." Domovoi smiled against Artemis's shoulder; the Fowl heir felt it. "Better safe than sorry, mm? It might have been serious. It's good that you called for me..." His voice trailed out. Artemis tensed.

"What? What is it?"

There came a slapping sound and Artemis jumped.

"Domovoi?"

"Moth," his bodyguard said calmly, and settled once more. "It's alright. I rendered it inoperable."

"You swatted it."

"Yes."

Domovoi shifted a little, drawing Artemis nearer, onto his lap. Artemis settled; the covers came up, gathered around him to keep him warm. Half-naked Butler was amazingly soothing, he found. So much more than a night light, or knowing the time.

"Would you... stay here for a while?" he said quietly. "I'm... a little rattled at the moment."

"Of course," Domovoi murmured. Artemis could even feel the rumble of his voice now. "I'll stay as long as you like."

With this promise in place, laced into the tender night air, Artemis felt that last little bit of tension ease out of his shoulders. He relaxed into Domovoi's body. His cheek came to rest on the muscular shoulder, surprisingly softly-padded, and he let the incomparable medicine that was Butler flow through him.

As the minutes passed by, as sanity returned, Artemis found a strange awareness filling him. It was like sight, only deeper than that, more complex - he found himself dwelling on the rhythm of Domovoi's breathing, the beat of his bodyguard's calm heart, the way his own fingers felt against those muscular arms. He could hear the wind fleeting over the manor walls. Brushing his hand down Domovoi's arm, he could even pinpoint the warmest areas, enjoying the fluxation of temperature, how the texture of his bodyguard's skin changed ever so slightly. He found a small scar at the crook of Domovoi's elbow. Gently, he investigated it, learning it with his fingers.

Domovoi's scent was intriguing. Artemis recognised it well now, after so many weeks of being so reliant upon his bodyguard. Before now, he hadn't taken the time to... well, enjoy it. Strangely, it wasn't the stylish, oceanic caress of Domovoi's expensive aftershave that made Artemis tingle just a little inside. It was a deeper aroma than that. The scent of night-clothes, of sleep, of cosiness and midnight reassurance and Domovoi sleeping half naked. Had he always slept half naked? What position did he sleep in? On his stomach, perhaps... so that muscular back was bare to the duvet... all muscle and softness and gently-hushing fingertips. And Domovoi's bed would be bathed in that scent. A scent so devastating, and so glorious. A scent divine. Heaven scent.

Artemis tilted his face, weakly, and let his nose and mouth brush over Domovoi's throat. He inhaled. He filled his lungs. No sip, no dabble, but drawing in that heady aroma and bathing in it, drowning, letting his soul gulp it down and soak into his flesh.

He found his mouth actually watering, and drew another breath, revelling in it. So masculine. So spicy, so comforting, a scent like wine. The finest, richest red - enough to pour down his throat and swallow mouthful after mouthful. It left him dizzy and drunken and sated.

The big, muscle-bound arms tightened around him, bringing him out of his thoughts. He was drawn closer to the hot, aromatic finery of Domovoi Butler. And Artemis was lost.

"Feeling a little better?" came the rusking murmur.

Stars shone before Artemis's eyes. "Oh... yes." He splayed his fingers at Domovoi's upper arm, resting his forehead on the other's shoulder. "A lot."

"Good..." A gentle pause. "Did you say you haven't been sleeping?"

Artemis hesitated. He was about to say that he was sleeping fine, that it wasn't a problem and he was just being silly, but the words paused on his tongue. He sighed. Embarrassed, he turned his face away. "I... I keep waking up. And I don't know what time it is or what's in my room. I know it's foolish. It just... unsettles me."

Domovoi nodded - he understood. Running a hand down Artemis's back, he said, "Is it being alone that concerns you?"

Artemis thought. At last, he came to a conclusion. "Yes... most likely... I just feel so much more vulnerable. So much more ignorant."

"You are never ignorant," said Domovoi softly. "Night time does strange things to all humans. Nobody will ever blame you for it. Especially not me." He tilted his head a little; Artemis knew his bodyguard was looking down into his face. "If you want, I could move into the room next door. An alternative would be for me to sleep on a camp bed, in here with you. That way, you'll be safer."

Artemis felt relief rush through him. He struggled to keep his expression appreciative but not adoring, and said, "I think that would help a lot... that would be good, Domovoi. Thank you."

"And I'll have that tree dealt with tomorrow... I can understand why that would spook you. It would have concerned me."

Artemis couldn't help but smile. "You'd have whipped out your gun and started shooting."

A soft laugh. "Yes, if you were there to protect."

Artemis felt something rather soft touch his chest. Before he could read into Domovoi's comment, before he could wonder too much, he found himself being eased back against his pillows. He laid down. Butler tucked him in.

"I'll go and bring a camp bed, hmm?" Butler said. He smoothed back Artemis's hair. "Mm... it's getting close to morning. I'll start on your breakfast."

"Alright." Artemis settled - he felt strangely giddy. Butterflies. He could still smell Butler, even as he heard his manservant cross the room, heading towards the door. With a thrill, he realised the scent was on _him_. All over his skin. He drew it in, and the tingle spread through his chest, lit him up a little inside. "Butler, what shower gel do you use?"

"Some ocean-fresh something or other... why?"

"I just wondered." Artemis smiled a little. "It's very pleasant."

Standing in the door, Domovoi paused. He smiled in return, looking back at the boy curled in bed, the contentment there. A twinge crossed his chest. He closed his eyes.

"Good to know," he said. He left.

As he made breakfast, he tried to stop thinking about how much he'd loved having Artemis cling to him and cry.


	6. Good Advice

*****

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind****_  
by Mottlemoth_**

**_*  
_**

**Chapter Six**

After breakfast, Artemis moved down to the lounge. Technically, it was a library - or rather, it had been a library before. The installation of a television and several new couches had transformed it somewhat, and Butler had done a rather wonderful job of it. Blankets, of varying textures, now covered the floor and were draped over the sofas, adding that little bit of fingertip-colour to Artemis's world. All small, bitty things had been demoted to other rooms, allowing more space, and there was always either music or television in the background. Increasingly, Artemis thought of it as a playroom - even if he never referred to it as that.

He had settled himself on the longest of the three couches. He liked the blanket thrown over this one, the slightly rippled seams that proved it was sewn by Butler's powerful hands, the squares of material his bodyguard had picked out for him. Often, Artemis was content just to lie and push his fingers over the fabric, investigate each tiny inch, amuse himself the way he had once gazed at landscape paintings or plays.

Today, his sense of touch seemed even more pronounced. He didn't have to think hard to work out why. His... experience with Butler last night had been a little revelatory.

He listened dimly to Butler move around the room, putting things away, and let his mind wander. Only a click, and the tell-tale soft crackle of the television, brought him out of his thoughts. He tilted his head up. The background chatter of a talk show met his ears, and Butler sat beside him, put a hand on his arm.

"Any thoughts of what you want to do today?" Butler asked.

Artemis thought for a moment. "I was rather hoping to do a little more clay..." His fingers had come across a button sewn into the fabric, an endearingly clumsy fastening, and he fiddled with it as he spoke. "Perhaps a flick through the news."

"Clay sounds good... in here? In the kitchen?"

"Mm, in here." It was warm in here, and comfortable. Artemis's nest. "We can put down newspaper, can't we?"

He heard the smile warming Butler's voice, the gentle "Of course". He moved a little closer. His fingers rested on Butler's chest, and wandered upwards over the muscular neck, to his manservant's face - yes, Butler was smiling. He knew that expression. It made him smile in return, and Butler's lips became a grin. "Was your breakfast alright?"

"Yes... as always." Artemis ran his hands down onto Butler's shoulders. "I'm a little thirsty. Could you fetch me some orange juice?"

"With ice?"

"Mm, yes please."

"Alright. I'll bring the clay as well."

Artemis nestled back against the sofa, listening as Butler left the room. When he was sure that his bodyguard was gone, he sighed and pressed his cheek to the blanket. The smile was still on his lips - he pushed it off, determinedly. He shouldn't feel this way. It was a dangerous way to feel, and he was painfully aware that Butler would see every sign he gave, every hint he couldn't hide. He couldn't make his manservant feel that awkward. It would ruin them both.

Even if his suppressed teenage heart flittered a little at each thought of that name - Domovoi.

Artemis had always been aware of his family heritage, but only got the chance to study his lineage in detail when he was about nine. Searching for a place to install a new security system, he found a trunk in the attic containing parchment scrolls, inked with complex drawings of the family tree. He remembered going back in time, scroll by scroll, until he found the strangest break in the tree. The family heritage had gone to the younger of two brothers, rather than the older. Curious, he researched; the older brother had fallen in love with his Butler. A male Butler as well, separated by several decades, and Oliver Fowl had abandoned the glory of his family. Abandoned the inheritance. Abandoned the chance to be the direct ancestor of an ancient dynasty, all for his Butler.

It had happened before... why not again? And in a modern world, would things be different? There was always the civil union. Adoption. Egg donation. The appropriate fluids of Artemis Fowl the Second and an anonymous but genetically healthy young lady could be whisked in a flask in a laboratory somewhere, and nine months later, onwards goes the family line.

Remembering that Butler was now his legal guardian, Artemis screwed his face up. He would have to check the laws regarding this. How he would carry out this task, he wasn't sure. He'd think of something.

Not that anything was going to happen at all, he reminded himself. Because it would be wrong.

It was also just a crush, a phase, confused feelings of admiration that had translated themselves into sexual attraction owing to the hormones whizzing about his body. It was a tenacious crush, admittedly. Stranger things had happened. Soon enough, if he was calm and logical, the feelings would fade and one day Butler would guide him up the aisle at his wedding.

He screwed his face up again. Not good.

"Hi there, welcome back to the show... if you've just joined us, our topic of today is young people and sex, whether the 'crisis' of teenage pregnancy in the newspapers is as bad as it seems, if teenagers really are indeed more sexually active than previous generations. What do you think?"

Artemis snorted at the television. He had half a mind to call in and ask if they could tell him whether bears defecated in the woods. The presenter chattered on; in spite of himself, Artemis listened.

"Okay, my current guest is Joe. Joe's eighteen now, and having some trouble with his family, who disapprove of a certain section of his life... hey Joe, welcome to the show - "

"Hi."

" - I wonder if you could tell us your troubles in your own words? When did the problems start?"

"Um... well, I came home one night, after a night out... and I said Mum, Dad, this is Simon and he's my boyfriend."

Artemis's ears pricked. The young man on the television gave a nervous laugh.

"And I think... I think that's where it went wrong. I hadn't come out before then. I didn't want to just say... you know, I'm gay, Mum. I sort of wanted proof. I know it sounds odd. Just... wanted to be serious."

"And you were serious about Simon?"

"Yeah. We'd be going out for about a year."

"And so, you came home, came out to your parents... what then?"

"Well, my dad wasn't happy... my mum wasn't either... they both kept asking if I was sure, things like that. Asking if I knew about AIDs and so forth... asking if I realise what I was getting into. When I'd decided to be gay. Dad decided I'd gotten in with a funny crowd. Mum just cried a lot and asked why. Like I'd... I don't know, one morning tried to think of how I could hurt them the most, and figured I know, I'll be gay..."

"Mm... and things still aren't good with your parents, are they?"

"No. Not really."

"Okay, just before we bring them out, here's a short video clip for the Gay Teen Association. Take a look."

Music; Artemis waited, assuming there were pictures of some kind, until a gentle female voice spoke. He listened rather intently.

"Being a teenager is hard, for everyone... but sometimes, for some people, there are added extra worries that you just don't need. Being gay doesn't have to be a guilty secret. It's difficult to know where to go for advice, or even just a friendly voice that understands."

More music. Artemis tilted his head to hear better.

"At the Gay Teen Association, we understand. If you need help or reassurance, we're here to make things easier - even if there's just a question on your mind, and nobody else to ask. Our trained counsellors can give you advice on everything from falling in love to being bullied, from coming out to STDs, and anything in between. Our helplines are always open. So if you need good advice from a friendly voice, call the Gay Teen Association now."

A phone number followed. Artemis devoured every digit, processed and repeated and programmed it into his brain, forced himself to remember. By the time that he had it sorted, the prattling presenter had returned and people were yelling. A moment later, he heard the door open. He lifted his head.

"Sorry it took a while," Butler said, and a glass was guided into Artemis's hands. He held it carefully. "We ran out of ice, I had to refill the tray."

"Thank you," said Artemis. The number was still rattling around his head. He sipped at his orange juice. "Have you brought...?"

"Not yet. I'm just going to bring it in from the garage."

"That's okay," said Artemis. He paused, thinking. "You know, I think I'd rather have clay in the kitchen. There's a little more room and I don't want to ruin the carpets. Could you put it in there?"

"Of course. It might take me a little longer though, carrying it from the garage."

"Not a problem. I don't mind waiting. Take as long as you like, I might read through one of my Braille books."

"You can always call if you need me. I'll hear if you shout."

Artemis smiled a little. "Yes... thank you, Butler." A pause; he enjoyed the word on his tongue before he said it. "Domovoi. You don't mind me calling you that, do you...?"

"No, not at all." Butler was smiling, he knew it. "My position here is more than a bodyguard now. There's no reason why we wouldn't be on first name terms."

Artemis tried not to think of the various other positions that Butler now brought to mind, and sipped at his orange juice, adopting a neutral expression. "Good... thank you, Domovoi."

"Anytime."

Butler left; Artemis waited, listening once more, imagining his bodyguard moving through the house and getting further away. A full minute had passed before he took the cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open.

No...

What would he say? He didn't really have a problem. And he knew what they'd tell him - that it was a crush, a phase, confused feelings of admiration that translated... no, he shouldn't. There was no point. Suicidal teenagers rang those lines, begging for their last help on God's green Earth. He would only be clogging up a phone, to tell someone he might have a crush on a male and what should he do?

Still... help and reassurance sounded wonderful. Even if it was just a thirty-second phonecall, just to hear another human being affirm that he was doing everything fine. Even if it just eased the weight in his chest.

He listened for a few seconds more, just to be sure. He couldn't hear anything. He didn't know how long it would take Domovoi to get everything set up - quite a while, probably, but not forever.

His heart made the decision for him. Quickly, he dialled the number and held the phone to his ear, a little breathless. It begin to ring - once. Twice. Three times. Artemis bit down on his lower lip. Perhaps he'd remembered the number wrong, and wouldn't that be best? His brain still said this was a bad idea. Six times, seven times. Really, he should just hang up because they weren't going to answer.

No sooner had the thought left his head than there was a click, and a voice came on the line.

"Hello, Gay Teen Association... my name's Julie, how can I help?"

Artemis hesitated. Speaking was something of a struggle. "Hello, I just - ... wanted to talk something through with someone. It's not urgent. Just... advice."

She sounded nice enough. "That's okay, it's what we're here for. What's your name? It doesn't have to be your real one."

"Jonathan."

"Okay, Jonathan," she said. Artemis was getting very good at hearing smiles, and he could hear one now. It made him feel better. "What is it you need advice with?"

"It's... something of a long story." He took a breath. "A few months ago, I started getting... um, feelings, for somebody I've known for a long time. He's older than me. I don't think we could be any closer without being family... he's a massive part of my life."

"Mm hmm."

"And at first I thought they'd gone away... fleeting, you know. A phase."

A smile. "Yes, I know."

"But I'm starting to think they haven't. I have the feeling that this is ongoing." He drew his feet up onto the sofa. He held his knees with one arm, cheek resting on the right. "I can't remember having feelings for another male before. This is... eh, an isolated case. I'm not fantastically sociable."

"I think it's important to be open-minded, but not trap yourself into anything, especially if this is the only attraction you've had to another man. I'd avoid labelling yourself."

"Yes, I'm doing so. Except... well, I get the feeling that this isn't... a phase, or just admiration. It's just..." He struggled for words. "It's an entirely powerful attraction. I can't imagine it being admiration, even if he is admirable... I don't think I want to be him. I want to be with him."

"Mm hmm."

"I'm just... not sure what I should do about it. If anything. His support and his care is so crucial to me. There really isn't anyone else. I really do mean that. Not in an emotional way... physically, rationally, if he left then I'd be facing - ..." He trailed out. "It's not worth thinking about."

"I understand where you're coming from. It's a difficult situation you're in, I can see why you'd want some advice on that. Unfortunately, the best advice might not be what your heart wants..."

"I know, I'm... expecting that."

"The truth is that attraction isn't always two-way, as much as it hurts. When dealing with sexuality, it can be even more difficult... do you know if this man is gay? Or does he have relationships with women?"

"I can't say." Artemis felt prickly jealousy for a moment and scowled at it, playing with the hem of his trousers. "In the time I've known him, he's never given any sign. I've not known him have a relationship with either sex..."

"I'm sorry about that. Sometimes, if you know that a person is exclusively heterosexual, that barrier can help you move on. My advice is that you have to assume he's not gay. The majority of the population are heterosexual, and it's the safest assumption to make."

"Yes, I can understand that..."

She really did seem to feel sorry for him. It was nice to hear. "From what you've told me, your relationship with this man could be quite awkward if one of you developed unrequited feelings. Is that so?"

"Yes... horribly awkward." Butler would be afraid to touch him, concerned about what thoughts were conjured in Artemis's head. Without Butler near him, without that physical comfort, Artemis could be looking at a very, very long time of loneliness. "I think... I think it could ruin both our lives. As much as it hurts to realise that."

"Realising it is the first step to moving on. I'm sorry... I can't give you hope on your feelings being returned with this man. I can promise you that someday, as unlikely as it seems, you'll find someone you can be sure with. You'll have a love relationship, a boyfriend, and still your friendship with this man... wouldn't that be the best case scenario?"

Artemis hesitated. "I... I don't know." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, to phrase this. It hurt to say. "This is... I don't want sympathy, and it's just stating a fact, just so you can help me more. I'm doing my best not to exaggerate."

"Go on, it's okay."

"I... doubt, very much, that I will ever be close to anyone else. I'm anti-social as it is, but I have issues with my sight. I'm more or less blind. And yes, I know there are clubs and groups where I can meet other teenagers, and so on, but... I don't know. I dislike that idea. I'd be happier here, just with my carer."

"Your carer, is he the man you've fallen for?"

"Yes." Artemis felt a strange, unfamiliar pain in his chest now. "His name's Domovoi. He's... he's a little bit wonderful to me."

She was quiet, listening, the sympathetic ear he needed so much.

"He lives here and he just... just makes me live. Just keeps me alive. If Domovoi was _gone _- ..."

He'd starve. Dirty and alone and probably mad with loneliness, frustration. Fall and injure himself so he bled to death. And who would find him? Nobody would even know he was dead. They'd discover a skeleton in a hundred years when they came to knock down the manor. The end of the Fowls.

"But it's not just one-way," he said, and he heard his own voice strained now. "He's... it's difficult to explain, but his life revolves around me. He's my bodyguard and everything to me. He's supposed to live his life following me around and protecting me... not just as a day job, I mean his life. And I... I want to be more of his life..."

"I see... well, this is a tricky situation. I think it changes things a little. If you really do live leaning on each other, constantly with each other, part of me would advise you to - "

And something moved near by. A footstep.

Artemis snapped the phone shut before another thought passed his brain. She was cut off; the phone bleeped, call ended. Artemis held his breath. "Domovoi?"

A pause.

"It's okay, it's me." Shit. Shit. Shit. Butler sounded a little strange. "I heard you talking, I wondered if you were alright. Is everything okay?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. Fine. My phone went off. Some idiot offering us double-glazing."

But how much had Butler heard? Even a few seconds would be too much. Artemis could feel his heart pounding. Suddenly, the loss of his sight was the most infuriating thing in the world, because if he could just see Butler's face, just know...

"Domovoi, you - ... I was a little rude to him, apologies for my profanity. No doubt you overheard."

A pause. Artemis hadn't taken a breath since Butler arrived.

"Mm? No, I didn't. I only just came in." Was that a smile in the voice? Or was he thinking too much? "It's alright, Artemis."

Silence; Artemis's head whirled. What was alright?

"Clay's ready," Butler said. He came closer. Artemis tensed, his mind still lost in a storm. "Was your orange juice alright?"

Artemis didn't even remember putting the damn thing down. "Oh yes, it was delightful." He reached up, instinctively putting his arms around Butler's neck to be helped to his feet. Butler's head was turned slightly, looking elsewhere. "Domovoi?" Artemis said, anxious.

Domovoi's eyes ran over the bottom of the television screen, where a lilac banner announced '_GAY TEEN ASSOCIATION_' and a phone number. Two plus two made four.

He hugged his young master a little tighter.

"It's alright, Artemis." He could feel Artemis's breathlessness, and it was so endearing. So tempting. "Let's go clay... we'll make something together this time, hmm?"

Artemis still seemed a little awkward. Domovoi's mouth curved in a smile.

"Except we'll have to do something abstract and lumpy, because I can't sculpt for shit."

Somehow hearing Domovoi swear, disciplined and trained and gun-toting Domovoi, made Artemis snort with laughter. The heaviness in the air was broken, like shattered glass. He dissolved into noises that were far too much like giggles, and could feel Domovoi grinning against the side of his face.

"Come on," Domovoi said. He stood slowly, putting an arm around Artemis's shoulders. "Clay. If we manage to finish it today, it should be fired by the end of the week and we can have it in your room."


	7. Temis

***  
**

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind  
****_By Mottlemoth_**

*****

**Chapter Seven**

Domovoi was dreaming.

What of, Artemis couldn't exactly be sure - it sounded as if it was pleasant though. Every now and then, the Fowl heir picked up on the sound of Domovoi stretching on his camp bed and the gentle shift of fabric over muscle; a sated sigh; a murmur that was too fleeting and too soft to draw words from. Usually when Artemis awoke now, he could drift straight back to sleep, content in the knowledge that his bodyguard guarded his bed. Tonight he'd stayed awake - smiling ever so slightly, lying on his side, listening to Domovoi enjoy whatever it was.

Another murmur; Artemis leant closer, biting his lower lip, trying to hear. No, too faint… such a shame. He was intrigued.

The part of his mind that was soaked with teenage hormones, the part with the most direct connection to his loins, said that Domovoi was naturally dreaming about him. In his manservant's sleeping mind, some lucky vision of Artemis Fowl the Second was surely being made love to in the most rampant of ways. It amused a part of him, and hence his smile - though he had to admit, it was nice to imagine.

A rather wonderful week had just gone by. Clay had featured heavily. For some reason, Artemis was starting to rather like the feel of Domovoi's huge hands over his own, slippery with clay.

Today some new audio tapes had come. They listened to one of those all afternoon, settled in bed, Artemis resting against Domovoi's broad muscular chest. Domovoi brought pasta up to the bedroom. When Artemis smudged a little sauce on his chin, Domovoi had wiped it off with a thumb.

Perhaps it was just the memories of a pleasant day he was reliving, Artemis mused, listening to Domovoi draw another slow sigh.

The Fowl heir had extra things to think about. He sighed, pressing his cheek to the pillow. Nothing had happened this week. Probability said that nothing would happen next week. Or the week after that. And so on, and so forth – it was best, of course. The words of the woman on the helpline still rang through his head.

Except the last thing she'd said. It haunted him. That his situation was different – he could hardly remember the exact phrasing. The meaning stayed the same though. That if he and Domovoi were isolated from the rest of the human race, absorbed in their own little world, the last two people alive... it changed things. The normal social rules couldn't be applied to this relationship.

It wasn't worth thinking about. However nice thinking about it was.

In his sleep, Domovoi made a noise almost like a moan. Artemis's ears pricked up. He scowled inwardly a moment later, reprimanding himself, and tilted his head.

Thirst was tickling at his tongue now. Even since childhood, he'd kept a glass of water by his bed, knowing it drove him mad if he wanted a drink and didn't have one to hand. Now, Domovoi kept the glass fresh each night. Another little thing Artemis could be grateful for.

He rolled onto his stomach and reached out, searching the cupboard top with his fingertips. His tongue protruded between his teeth.

Where the devil was it? His brows knitted, fingers stretched, wandering over books and bits of paper until he was hunting the far reaches of the night-stand, balanced perilously on the edge of his bed. The bones in his fingers ached from the strain... _just a little further_... he bit his lip, and flexed his fingers, screwed his face up –

And with a startled cry and a floomph, he toppled off the edge of the mattress. He landed in a heap atop of Domovoi, and his manservant let out a grunt. Artemis scrambled off him.

"Oh! Butler, sorry - ... I fell out of bed, I'm so sorry... did I hurt you?"

Domovoi yawned, softly. His muscular form stretched, and a sleepy hand laid across Artemis, hazy and content. "Mm, s'alright Artemis... you can sleep with me, s'okay..."

"Oh no, I fell. I was reaching for my water. I stretched too far."

Domovoi's voice was warmed by some sleepy softness. "Y'know I don't mind..." The arm wrapped around him, tightened, tucked him in. "Nightmares are alright, I get them sometime... you can tuck in with me, it's no problem..."

"No, really. I fell. I was reaching for my water glass."

Domovoi brushed back his hair; the other arm cradled him, drew him near. "Shh, it's okay, I'm here..." He coaxed Artemis's chin onto his shoulder. "Tell me what it was about... can't come true that way..."

Artemis found his face pressed against Domovoi's throat, and that scent came over him like a wave across the shore. It rushed through him. He hesitated, and gave in.

"Oh Domovoi, it was awful. I was so afraid."

"Mm, s'okay now... I'm here, you're alright..."

"It was terrifying."

"I know... poor Artemis... I know..." Hands, big hands that were oh-so-strong, oh-so-tender, began to graze up and down Artemis's back. Domovoi continued to croon, half-asleep himself. "S'all over now... I'm here, Artemis... shhh..."

Smiling rather widely now, Artemis draped his arms around Domovoi's neck and let his manservant coddle him. He discovered, to his delight, that if he whimpered and clung on a little tighter, Domovoi made the most wonderful noise of concern and squeezed him, rubbed his arms. This was very nice indeed. He'd have to fall out of bed more often.

Domovoi's hands were slowing; he was drifting back to sleep again. Artemis was content to let him. He snuggled just a little closer, running his fingertips over the smooth crown of his bodyguard's head. His lips had come to the older male's ear. He whispered.

"Thank you, Domovoi... I feel better now."

Domovoi murmured something wordless. He was drifting away again. Artemis cradled him, feeling relaxation soothe the brawny torso, until Domovoi was asleep beside him.

For quite some time Artemis merely lay, trailing his fingers over his manservant's scalp. That scent overwhelmed him. Warmed him. Laced thoughts into his mind. Promised him that no-one would know, if he wanted to try.

Excitement flickered through him, a midnight madness. He bit his lower lip.

Slowly, he trailed his mouth along the line of Domovoi's jaw to his chin. Their noses brushed; Artemis paused, waiting one more moment, just in case, just perhaps.

And then gently, timidly, he pressed his lips to his Butler's. A thrill rippled through him. He let the contact linger, savouring, but drew away quickly. His mouth tingled.

Domovoi slept on.

Artemis leant in once more – this time, he tilted his head a little, quivering with his own daring, and let his mouth seal over his sleeping bodyguard's. The seconds passed. Oh, but this was _wonderful_... all warmth, and strength, and he stroked his lips over the pliant mouth in utter delight and reverence. As he felt Domovoi move, he tensed and pulled back. Silence – still asleep.

One last moment of weakness; a final kiss. This time, he felt Domovoi stir again in his sleep. The tender mouth responded to his own, hazy, searching. Artemis drank it in, indulging, wondering if Domovoi's dreams were closer to the truth than he knew.

He drew away and pressed his fingertips to his own lips. His first kiss. And even though Domovoi was asleep, it felt real.

It felt amazing, like nothing he'd ever experienced before. A thrill beyond technology, beyond logic and science and chess and art, beyond all the things that made humans great.

Domovoi stirred in his sleep; he murmured, a soft breath, restless. Artemis stroked his bodyguard's lower lip with a single, tentative fingertip.

"Shhh," he whispered.

Some hidden tension evaporated from his manservant's shoulders.

After a last moment of awe, Artemis cuddled against the powerful chest, settled himself, closed his eyes.

Whether he slept or not, he didn't know. It was entirely possible that he simply drifted, lost in his own thoughts for immeasurable hours, until his awareness came into focus once more.

He shifted, rubbing against Domovoi's bulky frame, wondering why he felt different. Or felt something different.

He tried to think, running through each part of his body in turn. His legs were partially entwined with Domovoi's, though that wasn't it. His arms weren't usually wrapped around the chest of a sleeping partner, he supposed, and he didn't usually have the pleasure of napping with his face turned into his bodyguard's throat. One of Domovoi's arms was around his waist. And the other –

"Oh," Artemis managed.

Domovoi's palm was resting over his backside - innocently enough, he had to admit. As innocent as such a thing could be. It was a curiously possessive hold, and not unpleasant, though a little strange. It was new. Artemis bit his lip, then shifted, just to see. Domovoi's fingers flexed in his sleep and drew Artemis's hips closer, reclaiming his territory.

For the next few minutes Artemis became a battlefield, with his heart and hips both declaring that this was a marvellous situation and should happen much more frequently. His brain was concerned, to say the least. As Domovoi shifted and began to stroke in little patterns with sleepy fingertips, the battle became a fully-fledged war and Artemis squeezed his eyes shut, begging any passing deity to heed his prayer.

The motions of the other male's fingertips were hypnotic – so hazy, unaware, so good. Their bodies were seamless, pressed tight to each other, kept apart only by thin night clothes. Domovoi was half-naked as it was.

A sleep-soaked murmur came from the Eurasian's lips, and Artemis's eyes widened as the strong fingers squeezed his backside. They slid down, travelling foggily to stroke his thigh, petting here and there in a most delightful way. Artemis shivered – a new problem was arising, and this was bad. If Domovoi woke up with a handful of Artemis's arse, it could be explained. They might even laugh about it, in about a decade or so. If he woke up with the same handful, and a very aroused and quivering teenage boy in his arms, things might not be quite so funny.

He reached down. Gingerly, he slid his fingers over the hand and coaxed it to stay still. He shifted over, so his back was pressed to Domovoi's chest, and at least the evidence wasn't so obvious now. He put his bodyguard's arm around his waist. There. Wonderful.

He settled, both disappointed and relieved. Domovoi stirred behind him and a yawn was stifled into his shoulder.

"Artemis…?" Half-awake.

"Just needed to roll over," Artemis said softly. "Go back to sleep."

"Mm… okay…" Another yawn. Domovoi nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Within minutes, he was asleep once more and his hands behaved this time.

Artemis laid awake for a few more minutes, willing the ache between his legs away. In the morning, no doubt this would all seem very different – his mind would boggle over how he ever dared to steal kisses from Domovoi's unknowing lips, or how he managed to get into the most intimate situation of his life with a man who wasn't even awake. For now, it made sense. It was all that mattered really. They were the last two humans alive, after all.

Distantly, half-asleep, he registered that Domovoi had spoken again and managed to tilt his head. He listened. Domovoi squeezed him.

" 'temis…" came the breath.

Artemis laid his fingers over his manservant's heavy hands. " 'movoi…"

*

Domovoi woke early. To his relief, Artemis was still asleep.

The boy was nestled down on the camp bed as comfortably as if he'd slept on one his entire life. The duvet was bunched up around his chin. Sleep had tousled his hair over his face, lifted a pink warmth in his cheeks. Even the scars, the burns, even the accident, hadn't spoilt Artemis Fowl.

For far too long, Domovoi sat cross-legged on the floor beside their nest and watched the Fowl heir sleep, feeling his heart pound.

He remembered Artemis crawling into his bed, frightened by a nightmare. He remembered fading in and out of sleep for a long time, and then he must have fallen properly to sleep, because he remembered kissing the boy. He remembered doing more than that. It was so clear in his mind.

He could still feel the pale, sleep-silkened arch of Artemis's bare back under his fingertips.

Hanging his head, he ran his palms wearily round to the back of his neck. This was getting too much. He couldn't get this close. Artemis had a fleeting schoolboy crush on him at most, brought on by feelings of need and the subconscious desire to survive. It was only a small step from Stockholm Syndrome. It was dangerous.

He put his fingers to his lips. It had seemed so real.

He showered and shaved, and dressed, and suddenly his everyday routine had become almost mechanical. He constructed Artemis's breakfast. He checked the post – a new audio tape, some more leaflets, a bill, a newsletter from the carers' society he'd joined. He left it all on the doormat. This morning, the concept of 'post' seemed too mundane and too ridiculous, too normal to comprehend.

He felt as if something profound had happened.

He took Artemis's breakfast tray upstairs – the boy was just where Domovoi had left him, still asleep, half-nuzzled into the pillow. The covers had twisted slightly.

It was the glimpse of back, just visible where Artemis's nightwear had rumpled, that broke Domovoi.

He left the intercom system on, knowing that Artemis would call when he was awake, knowing he would respond to the call instantly. He then went to the training room now set up down the hall. For two and a half hours, without so much as a break for a drink, he beat the living daylights out of the punch-bag hanging from the ceiling until dust rose and his fists ached, and sweat ran down his chest.

Dents remained in the bag afterwards, and three new rips. He tried to complete the relaxation exercises taught to him by an old martial arts teacher, but couldn't settle. Too much energy was pounding through his veins.

When Artemis's voice at last came through the intercom, he had ground himself down into submission. He mopped the sweat from his brow. Normality, he thought. He had to do this.

All the same, he couldn't stop his fingertips from shaking as he gathered Artemis out of bed, the boy's arms wrapped around his neck, breath soft over his cheek. "Have you been training?" Artemis asked, startled.

"Don't want to get out of shape," Domovoi managed. He closed his eyes. Control, he thought. Nothing had happened. Nothing was new. Artemis didn't deserve to be worried. With this in mind, he recalled reality and squeezed Artemis. "Let's get you some more orange juice."

"A-alright." He chose to ignore the awkward note in the Fowl heir's voice. "Did any tapes come?"

Tapes. Yes. Reality, normality. He couldn't be in love or lust or whatever the hell it was with his teenage employer because the tapes had come in the post. Such things happened in reality, not in this state he'd stumbled into. His head was going at a million miles an hour and more than anything, he wanted to go for a run. He wanted to run and run, over the hills and far away, run until time went retrograde and they were back in the car and he could slam on the brakes, stop the car, and nobody would ever need to know he wanted nothing more than this boy in his bed.

"Butler?"

"Yes. Tapes. One did." An opportunity arose. "I'll set you going with that after your breakfast, shall I? I might go running later. Sooner."

"Okay... Butler, is – "

"Orange juice! I forgot. I'll get your orange juice."

Butler left. He returned only long enough to hand a startled Artemis his orange juice, re-gabble his intentions to go for a run, and then leave once more as quickly as he could. He changed into his running gear and then fled the house.

Butler ran. He ran, and he ran, over the hills and far away. Through the rain and the mud, Butler ran. He ran until sweat ran like slime down his back and the rain washed it away, until the earth was clapped up his legs like clay, until he had chased every last drop or speck of mortal lust from his soul. He ran until he'd re-captured his sanity. Chest heaving, muscles aching, he jogged back to Fowl Manor and left himself in through the kitchen.

"Artemis?" he called. His voice echoed back at him. How long had he been gone? Hours, probably, and he'd not left in a calm and logical manner. He felt an idiot for it. All the same, it had to be done. Artemis would understand if he knew. "Artemis?"

Again, there was no reply. Still spattered with mud and rain, Butler made his way through the house, calling. _Artemis, Artemis_.

The volume of his calls rose with each step. The silence only came back louder in his ears.

Eventually he found himself sprinting up the stairs, almost screaming. _Artemis, Artemis_.

The bedroom was empty. At first he thought it had nothing to tell him, before he took a second look around the bed. Shards of glass littered across a sticky orange patch. Specks of blood over the mattress, the end table. _Artemis. Oh god, Artemis_.

He followed the blood trail. At first it went just across the carpets, then the walls where Artemis had grappled for a doorway, smeared, clutching.

Butler found Artemis in a crumpled heap in the bathroom, deathly pale, blood from the gash in his hand cloying on the linoleum around him. The tap was still running where he'd tried to clean his wound.

The ambulance came.

Butler sat in the back, spattered in mud and rain, in his Artemis's blood, as the paramedics clambered over each other and the siren screamed in his ears.


	8. 1864 The Heat Wave

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

_**By Mottlemoth**_

*****

**Chapter Eight**

*****

_From the private journal of Dmitri Eoghan Butler – 21__st__ June 1864._

The heat wave continues over the manor; I fear the weather is becoming more than just an inconvenience, or a simple discomfort. Every day now, we have at least two maids faint around midday. The kitchens (and, in fact, most of the manor's interior) have become unbearable. They say the old and the sick are dying in the towns. Riverbeds are running dry. Crops are withering in the fields.

The master and mistress, and young master Marcus, left the manor this morning for the coast. Marcus is not yet eleven, and a delicate child. The mistress fears the heat will cause him injury. They are not expected to return for some weeks, until the worst of the summer has passed – I hope this might alleviate our situation at the manor. Without most of the family to serve, ill staff may be sent home to recover, and the general workload will, I hope, be reduced. I have no wish to lose a staff member to the heat. The running of the manor is under my care and direction until the mistress returns, and the health of the household is my priority. This heat cannot be fought, merely endured.

Only Master Oliver remains at the manor.

Since his birth, he has spent his life proving to me his remarkable self-sufficiency - his ability to adapt to difficult circumstances with great ease. He bears the true Fowl stripe. He can appear comfortable in any place or situation, no matter what may be taking place around him. His independence sometimes strikes me as even being _beyond _Fowlesque – being _greater_ than his family. Master Oliver is a whole new species of Fowl.

It is no surprise that the heat seems not to trouble him in the least. He has made very few special requests; he has taken it in his stride, adapted. Each morning he takes himself out to the summerhouse. There he remains, working until a light lunch of sandwiches around midday is brought with a pitcher of water and ice; he works through the afternoon; in the evening, he may retire inside if the heat of the day has passed, or else he stays out with the fireflies writing into the darkness.

I gather one of the London literary journals has published a substantial collection of his poetry this month, under yet another pen-name of his. Often I wonder if his publishers would recoil in horror, should they discover his true age. He is but nineteen, after all. I have thumbed through two of his novels, and find they fully merit their scandalous reputation. Their publication caused ripples in the literary world, so I'm told. Master Oliver's penchant for smut is near-legendary. He is held as one of the greatest writers of erotica of our time, and not even into his third decade of life.

The master and mistress, as ever, have no idea. Perhaps it is best. I live in fear that they will one day discover his occupation, and that their first question will be where he could possibly have gained such carnal experience as to be able to write about it.

Master Oliver adhered to his usual routine today. I observed the running of the household through the morning, ensuring that laundry and cooking are proceeding as well as can be expected in the heat. A maid took him his lunch and his pitcher of ice water. As evening fell, I prepared his evening meal and delivered it myself, taking it across the lawns and to the cool green shade which surrounds his summerhouse.

He was reading as I came in. He put down his novel and greeted me favourably, and thanked me for his meal – a salad, some sliced fruit and cold meat and fresh bread. He asked if I would sit with him as he ate. I did. He told me about his day, about his work, and read me a few poems which occupied his afternoon - of the romantic variety, rather than erotic. Not that he is ever shy in reading any specimen of his work. He asked me if all was well up at the house. I told him yes; I told him that I had given most of the staff the evening off, as the day had been long and arduous for many of them, and he supported my decision. He asked if my duties for the day were done.

We spent the evening together. Night brought a coolness to the gardens and we withdrew indoors, at which point the rest of the staff were gone, and the house was ours.

It is shortly before midnight as I write this. Master Oliver sleeps.

It may be a month or more before his family return to the manor – I have so many fears – so many joys. It is difficult to express. Already I take too many liberties in having a journal, let alone divulging to it the things I do. I take liberties with my entire life. My God. This will ruin him. How can this have happened?

I fear I am falling in love with my Fowl.

*

_From the private journal of Oliver Ciaran Fowl – 21__st__ June 1864._

My parents have vacated the manor for the coast, at last... I thought they'd never go. If they hadn't gone soon, I would have gone myself and taken Dmitri with me, and found some cottage on the cliffs with thatch on the roof and seashells pressed into the doorframe... the idea remains rather tempting, actually. Perhaps when my parents return to shatter my peace again, I will begin vocalising the desire for a holiday. We could travel for summer. Paris, Switzerland.

Ireland suits me well for now – the manor is mine until further notice, and based on this the first day of my command, I will soon be suggesting to Dmitri that the staff be given a lot more time off. He can, after all, attend to my needs quite adequately by himself. More than adequately. Today was rather divine, as it happens. We should have more heat waves.

I spent the day working – much done, hoping to have the latest project to the publisher long before the deadline. I was a little disappointed that Dmitri was too busy to bring my lunch. I suppose it made the bulk of the day productive, though.

He brought my evening meal. Light, as always; I cannot eat richly in summer, or when I am working. He was down to his shirtsleeves when he appeared at last. No waistcoat, no tie. I took it to mean the rest of the staff were dwindling home, and he was mine at last.

He seemed on edge. He always does, if he comes to me after a day's work, even after six months of this new edge to our relationship. I suppose he spends his daylight hours as a servant, a butler, rigid and upright and the very face of propriety. The transition must be huge for him. It must be strange.

He thinks too much. I wish he wouldn't.

It took me some time to get him to soften. We talked and I read him my work, and I snacked on my fruit and my salad. He gave me the day's report on the laundry and the maintenance level of the roof and many other things about which I care very little.

Finally he started to smile at some of my comments. He eased in his chair and some of the tension in his shoulders ebbed. He gestured more as he spoke. His eyes started to spark and it took nearly an hour, even longer than usual, but at last we were talking with such ease and I realised I had finally gotten past my Butler, reached my Dmitri. Evening had fallen. Moths batted at the summerhouse windows and all was quiet, all was perfect.

As he was talking, telling me some story or other, I stood from my wicker chair and moved to him. He fell quiet. I eased into his lap and felt him soften at once, all of him, every muscle. I slid my arms around his heavy neck. I pushed my fingers through his hair and looked down at him, and he looked up. He is a beautiful man. He has no idea. His eyes are such a shaded blue as to be black, and when all his power and his fire is focused on me, my skin tingles and I feel like I no longer need to breathe. Six months, I have felt this way. Six months my life has been complete.

I kissed him; he relaxed so quickly. Sometimes when I coax him into my bed at night, he seems initially reluctant and even fearful, but then he eases so quickly and sinks and falls under my spell with so little resistance. I have his heart – I hope I do. I know I do. Within moments tonight, he gave in and began to kiss my neck, all up my jaw, over the shell of my ear. He ran his hands up the curve of my back. His touch seems to melt me at the edges, even after all this time, and I heard myself whimpering as he undid my shirt. His mouth brushed all along my shoulders. He circled my nipples with his thumbs. I was aflame.

I pulled him onto the low couch – I made him lie down, so I could do away with his clothing, all of it – and I spent the evening in his lap, dying under his tender hands. We became as intimate as we could without oil. When we make love, my mind becomes a blur and I seem to drown, surfacing only now and then. My awareness waxes and wanes. Tonight, I came back to myself as the light levels were falling, and found myself sitting on the edge of the couch with Dmitri on his knees before me, drawing me into his mouth. I was moving my hands through his hair. I was crying. I seemed to come into such clear consciousness at this moment, suddenly realised myself again, and I was so aware. It was like reaching a higher plane. I only wish I could write as powerfully as Dmitri can make me feel.

We retired indoors soon enough. My bedside cabinet has a plentiful supply of oil, fortunately for me. He took me twice during the night. Once, before sleep, tenderly; twice, when I woke him shortly after midnight, and he was so very sleepy and hazy and relaxed. His moans will stay with me for a long time.

Oh, diary... if only you could appreciate how lucky I am. You have no idea. I am so very much in love.

The question of the future, as always, lingers in the back of my mind. It is not a heavy weight yet. I fear it might become one. But for now I am young; I am in love; and this affair is my most closely-guarded secret.

I see no reason to end it. I see no reason to worry about trifles like the future, when the future will come should I worry or not.

I think that if we are ever discovered, and public scorn comes pouring down upon me, I will present Dmitri naked to my critics, and challenge them _not_ to drag him to their bed on the spot. And, I will add, I suffer the further pressure of being in the close vicinity of this man every day of my life. He runs my baths. He makes my meals. He wakes me every morning and asks how I slept.

And he is so _beautiful_. I am so lucky.

I think I adore heat waves.


	9. Basic Duties

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

_**By Mottlemoth**_

_*****_

**Chapter Nine**

*****

When Artemis first woke, he was six – he was six and at any moment, his alarm clock would give him a stream of Pachelbel's Canon in D Major to inform him it was five AM. There was the most fascinating series about volcanoes on National Geographic at this time each Wednesday. Butler would have his breakfast here in an hour. But what was that steady beeping sound? Had his alarm clock malfunctioned?

Soon he realised his error. He wasn't six at all. What a ludicrous thought. He was nine, of course – it was a weekend he'd been planning for some time. He and Butler were setting out rather early to catch the ferry. The British Museum had reputedly come into some intriguing Mesopotamian vases that he wished to see for himself. Butler would be moving their cases to the car.

The car – now why did that send a thrill through his chest? Why did he suddenly have the instinct to cover his eyes? And what _was_ that infernal beeping noise?

He was ten. It was the first day of term and Butler would be returning him to school in a few hours. He hadn't packed. Why on earth had he not packed? Ah – of course. He was mistaken. He was eleven and he'd turned in late last night, having spent the night trawling through lines of internet code trying to verify the source of the latest website. He had to remind Butler to contact his man in Cairo. Yet now that word too, _Butler_, turned him cold all over and he didn't know why. Was he eleven at all? What else could he be? And that _beeping_, what the devil was beeping?

Someone was in the room with him. He tried to open his eyes to ascertain where the gentle scrape of chair legs had come from. He found, bizarrely, that he couldn't. He spoke the first word that offered itself up in his head.

"Butler?"

Nothing for a moment; then, in strained tones and from nearby came:

"I'm here. I'm... here, Artemis."

Butler sounded hoarse, as if he had hadn't taken water or slept for several days. Artemis's brain was forging links and then snapping them just as quickly. His brow furrowed.

"Have we been taken hostage, Butler? I can't seem to – my memory, I..."

Ah! It was a blindfold, then. He tried to lift his arm to pull it away. Something resisted him, tugged in the skin on the back of his hand. He was hooked up to an IV. Panic momentarily seized his heart and, distantly, he heard the beeping speed up.

"Butler, they have me drugged. Are you injured? Have they blindfolded you as well?"

Butler sounded even worse – like he was about to vomit, or collapse, or as if every word was a struggle. "Artemis, you're.... you're in hospital."

"Hospital? Why am I in hospital? Is it the fae? Are they – "

And it hit him. A block in his memory seemed to give way and like cracked castle walls, an army of past pains came swarming in. The force of it took Artemis's words away. He reeled, sinking.

The car, the blast. The blindness. The hospital, the nurses, the drive home he'd spent digging his fingers into the leather seats of the taxi and waiting to die. The sleepless nights. The kiss - the kiss he'd stolen, and now he remembered. Catching the glass and how stupid, Domovoi would never dare to go out running again. He'd think Artemis was incompetent. Artemis didn't realise the thing had cracked until he reached down to find it, and it ripped him across the fingers. There was a lot of blood. He could feel it hot over his fingers, over his wrists. He'd gone dizzy halfway down the corridor. He didn't know if he'd reached the bathroom. Presumably not.

Hospital. _Again_. How embarrassing.

"Domovoi, you must think – "

"I'm so _sorry_."

Artemis stopped. He had never heard Domovoi speak in such a cracked voice, so distraught. Even after everything, even since the explosion, Artemis was not used to feeling fear. He disliked it. He grappled with it.

"Sorry?" he said. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"I can't - ... I should have stayed. Of all the _stupid_ things to do, to leave you, to think – "

"Stop. Stop _now_. I am not incompetent."

" – selfish actions. I didn't think. I... I never expected to – _unprofessional_, and – "

"Butler. I knocked over a glass. I am _not_ incompetent."

" – unable to fulfil my basic duties. I've come to the conclusion – "

"_Listen to me_, will you? Don't you _dare_ start acting like the others. Don't even dare – "

" – all things considered, I can no longer – "

"_I am not incapable of handling myself!"_ Artemis exploded, knowing that nurses would come and not caring an iota. He found himself shaking. He had never been quite so angry. He grabbed for the bed rail. "Do not _belittle _me!" he hissed, hauling himself up. "_You_, of _all_ people – "

" – to leave your service."

*

Domovoi let the words go from his lips. To him they came as a logical conclusion, an ending that had been unavoidable from the beginning. He'd thought about it all day and night. He'd rehearsed it. He had no other choice. Centuries of history, and no Butler had ever left the service of a Fowl. But then, no Butler had ever so spectacularly, irredeemably, utterly failed his Fowl.

The colour drained from Artemis's face. He let go of the bed rail. He turned back into the pillows looking as if he'd been physically struck.

Butler could barely breathe, but he forced himself on, ashamed of the shake in his voice.

"My feelings towards you are inappropriate and I cannot perform my duties. I cannot serve you. I cannot keep you safe. I... god, Artemis... I could have _killed_ you. I've failed in _every_ duty every charged to me. I have chosen to leave. It is the only honourable course of action open to me and all I can do is apologise, and tell you I am so, so _sorry _for the shame I've brought_..._"

Artemis's mouth was open – his blind eyes were searching, reeling. He looked incapable of speech.

Domovoi could not bare it and knew he deserved no less than to have this image seared on his memory, this last sight he would have of the esteemed Artemis Fowl, the boy he had been charged to protect and had in fact destroyed.

"I've contacted the academy," he said, his voice breaking. "They're sending a replacement out. She'll do everything I was meant to. Sometime in the morning she'll report here to you."

"You... you're..."

"I've also contacted my teachers individually. Madame Ko. She... knows of the situation. She wishes to express to you her deepest apologies over my conduct. I have been struck from the academy's lists of honour and my name circulated through other companies. I shall not be a bodyguard again."

"How can you..."

"On a personal note, all I can do is - ... my regret. My utmost regret. I shall spare you my unprofessional sentiments. I'm leaving immediately for the boat."

He had his cases packed. The nurses were watching them at the desk. By morning the ferry would bring him to Holyhead, and from there he would travel north through England to Newcastle, where an old friend owned a factory and needed a night guard. Domovoi had figured all this out while Artemis slept.

It was sudden, but it had to be this way. It had been this way from the beginning.

He'd come in civilian clothes, a jumper and a long coat, and these were his final moments with any connection to the Fowl family. To Artemis. He wanted to tell Artemis he would never forget him, wherever he went, whatever he did, whoever he met. He wanted to tell him that the happiest years of his life had commenced with Artemis's birth, and they would end here tonight. He wanted to say thank you.

But he wouldn't have his last action here be dishonourable. It would change nothing, but he would leave with his dignity. He would not sink any lower.

He stood. Artemis was drip-white.

"I... goodbye, Master Fowl. It has been the greatest honour to serve you."

Artemis swallowed. Speech was returning. "Don't go," he said, and said it again, louder. "Don't go. Domovoi."

Domovoi turned. He walked away. He bowed his head under the door. Artemis was now shouting.

"Domovoi!_ Domovoi, _please! _Domovoi!!"_

Two nurses came hurrying from a nearby ward and into the room as Domovoi left. He pretended he couldn't hear them trying to restrain Artemis. It was no longer his concern. He had no right to question other's treatment of the Fowl heir, when he himself had done no better. Artemis's screams for him to come back fell dead in his ears.

He picked up his cases from the desk. He left the hospital, and flagged a taxi from the rank outside**.**

As they drove away, he wanted to look back for the chance he would see Artemis at a window. He wanted one last look. For all their years together, he wanted that last glimpse to carry with him as real and searing as his dishonour.

He bowed his head. He hunched his shoulders, curled his fists, and they drove on into the rain.


	10. 1864 The Happy Here and Now

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

_**By Mottlemoth**_

_*****_

**Chapter Ten**

_Author's Notes_

Warning! This chapter is the first to earn the fic its 'M' rating (you've probably all forgotten it was M-rated!). So, if you're offended by graphic (romantic, tasteful etc) depictions of sex, stop reading now. Otherwise, full steam ahead! :D

Also: a huge thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing. I know there are people who've followed this fic since its start, four years ago now (argh). I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. Here's hoping it's worth it. And just to reassure you all - the fic is finished and being beta-read and there will be no more waiting. Three more chapters and an epilogue to come! And they're all nice and long and juicy, because you've all been so patient and wonderful.

So thank you for enjoying - thank you for reviewing. It's doing me a whole ton of good. Reviews are the reason I've gotten off my sorry shirking behind and finished this fic, and I'm so glad I kept going. Every person reading is *awesome*. Thank you.

***  
**

_Christmas 1864._

Christmas at Fowl Manor was always an extravagant affair. The master spared no expense in the holiday, or in the delight of his two sons and his wife, and each Christmas reminded Dmitri why his family line had bonded themselves so eternally to the Fowls. Fowls were the most intriguing of paradoxes. They were at once perfect criminals and perfect family figures, like nettle-daisy hybrids, and even a string of bloody or objectionable murders throughout the year could be balanced by the warmth of a Fowl Christmas.

On the first day of December, Dmitri oversaw the putting up of the Christmas tree in the entrance hall. This year's tree was particularly handsome and nearly brushed the ceiling. As soon as its great pot was in place, a door at the top of the stairs opened and the master emerged. His face lit with delight.

"Ah, _excellent! _Excellent – and put up in such short time!" He scaled the staircase at speed, and came to stand at Dmitri's side, gazing up at the magnificent fir. "My goodness. I do believe we've outdone ourselves this year, Butler."

Dmitri permitted himself a small smile. It was Christmas, after all. "Yes, sir. She's a real beauty."

"Oh, she _is_. How excellent. With such a perfect tree – do you know, Butler, I have half a mind to hold a gathering of some kind. For friends and the such like, in honour of the season. Extended family. What do you think?"

"Very good, sir. I'm sure it would be an event to remember."

"Yes. Yes, that settles it. I shall start on written invitations tomorrow morning... but for tonight, my time is very much occupied. And wonderfully so."

"Are you sure you shan't have any assistance this year, sir? It's a sizeable tree."

"No, no. I won't hear of it, Butler." The master approached the tree, studying the branches between his long fingers. His eyes were very bright. The master was an admirable man, fair and compassionate, a man with a great sense of perspective. Dmitri's respect for the master was almost unrivalled. "Your offer is very kind, Butler, but I must decline. Tradition is tradition. My entire year would be blighted, if I lost this moment."

The master turned.

"Do inform Madame Fowl our guest has arrived, and is ready to be decorated. And would you fetch the boys?"

Always the master spoke of his boys, even though Oliver was now twenty. Dmitri suspected he would talk about his boys until he was on his death bed, and looking at two fifty-something-year-olds, and even then he would go to his grave with peace and with love and with thoughts of his boys.

"Yes, sir."

"Then... take the evening off, Butler. With the rest of the staff. Let everyone know. My family and I will take care of ourselves for tonight."

"Sir – that's very kind of you. Thank you, sir."

"Oh, it's nothing. All of you take yourselves home to your families, make an evening of it. God bless, Butler."

Dmitri had no home and no family to return to, but he would enjoy the time off. He envisioned a book and perhaps a glass of wine in his room, an easy evening. The beginnings of Christmas warmth stirred in his heart without reflecting on his face.

This Christmas, of course, held brand new significance. It was an anniversary of sorts. As Dmitri glanced up at the great tree, and Master Fowl circling it and admiring it in brimming tones, the manservant wondered how this Christmas would be. He wondered if he was right to attribute significance to it, and whether the hope in his chest should be exchanged for fear and guilt at once.

He left the hall, ascending first to Madame Fowl's rooms.

"My goodness, already? How wonderful! I'll be straight down... do tell the children, Butler. Marcus has been near-desperate for weeks."

Marcus Fowl, the family's youngest son, was indeed ecstatic to hear the tree was here. He sprinted from the room before Dmitri could finish his announcement, off to join his family for their most important tradition of the year. Tonight, the Fowls would sit together in the light of the Christmas candles, which even now Madame Fowl would be lighting. They would share warm drinks of cocoa and malt, and decorate the gigantic tree together, laughing and talking and sharing their wishes for the Christmas to come. Madame Fowl would serve their evening meal. When the tree was complete, they would gather at the piano and sing in the start of the season, and Dmitri would hear their voices even from his attic room.

"Enter," came the call, as Dmitri knocked on the door of the family's eldest son. He let himself in.

Young Master Fowl was at work, reclining at his desk with pen in hand. The floor around him was covered in rejected masterpieces, sheets upon sheets splayed across the carpet in casual disregard. His head was slightly inclined, eyes veiled by his sleek dark hair. He wore a loose dress shirt with fluted sleeves, white, and one slender leg was eased over the other, delicate ankles encased in black velvet boots with a pointed toe. A single silver ring glinted on his right hand, laid idle on the desk.

He was so very beautiful.

Dmitri crushed the thought back to the tiny hidden vault in his heart. He lifted his chin.

"The tree is here, Master Fowl. Your father requests your presence in the hall as soon as is convenient."

His charge's thin lips curled, though Oliver did not look round. "Marvellous," he said. "I'll be there presently..." He finished his sentence with a flourish and a quick dot, then turned from his desk to face Dmitri in the door. "Have they started without me?"

"No, Master Fowl. You may wish to hurry, though."

Oliver chuckled. "Marcus as enthusiastic as ever?"

"Yes, Master Fowl."

"It _is_ now Christmas, I suppose. We can't condemn him for a little over-eagerness. 'Tis the season, and so on and so forth."

He rose from his desk, as elegant as a swan on the water.

"And how are you spending your first Yuletide evening, Butler? Any plans? I trust my father has permitted you the night off."

"He has, Master Fowl. I thought a book would be the best occupation of my free time."

"Splendid. If you need a new one, do help yourself to the shelves... heaven knows I have enough of them."

"Thank you, Master Fowl. I shall."

Oliver paused in the door, as he passed Dmitri. He turned. His eyes lifted, and he lingered there, resting a hand on his bodyguard's barrel chest.

Dmitri felt the touch like a blast of cold wind, like his very first breath. His eyes flickered. He fought it and tried to stay impassive, unfeeling, but Oliver was easing close to his chest. The pale fingertips travelled to his jaw and cupped. The touch was feather-light.

"Dmitri, I don't know if you recall – the time seems so much longer – but this Christmas marks our first full year."

Dmitri swallowed. "Master Fowl, I – "

"I should warn you now. You're quite possibly aware that I am a hopeless romantic, and so it shouldn't come as a surprise... I intend to mark our first year in some manner. Some gesture. I haven't settled on a particular idea yet. I hope this is acceptable."

Dmitri didn't dare breathe or think. Oliver leant up, lips grazing just once across his manservant's jaw.

"I wonder if Christmas Eve might be most appropriate," Oliver murmured. "It being our 'official' anniversary."

Dmitri's head whirled. Last year – Madame and Master Fowl had withdrawn to the parlour to sing together, as they had on Christmases past when they were courting. Master Marcus was shooed to bed to await the arrival of Father Christmas, with a warning not to attempt rat-traps and strategically-placed bags of flour like the previous year. Master Oliver had stayed up, too happy to sleep, a little relaxed and pagan-eyed on mulled wine.

They sat in the lounge together with a roaring fire, talking, sharing secrets, sparring playfully and teasing one another. Oliver laid a hand on Dmitri's thigh and leant across, and kissed him, and Dmitri's world had shattered into the most beautifully meaningless little shards around him. _Happy Christmas, Dmitri_, Oliver breathed against his lips. He took Master Oliver to his bed that night, and in the morning, he watched Oliver opening gifts with his family beneath the tree and realised the course of his entire life had changed forever.

And now it had been a year.

He dared to glance into the pale blue eyes, and found them looking back at him. Oliver seemed almost afraid of something. Rejection, Dmitri realised – rejection of the significance of their year. He wet his dry lips.

"That... would indeed be appropriate, Master Fowl."

"May I buy you a little token?" Oliver tried a smile. "You may, of course, return the gesture if you wish."

"I think I will, Master Fowl."

Oliver's eyes softened. "Alright." He hesitated, then leant up again, planting a kiss this time on Dmitri's lips. Dmitri felt his eyes flutter shut, felt his heart take an extra beat as if it were calling out, saying, _here I am._

When Oliver drew back, his eyes were shining ever so slightly. "Dmitri, may I frighten you?"

Dmitri glanced along the corridor. There was no-one around.

"You are capable of nothing which would frighten me, Master Fowl. And I know all you're capable of."

Oliver's lips curved. He hesitated, then said, "Even if I were to tell you I loved you?"

Dmitri took a moment to think. He wanted to give Oliver an honest answer, and nothing less.

He thought about their year, their spring and their summer, their autumn spent on long walks together through the hills, laughing, chasing, pausing in leaf-strewn forests to press Oliver against a tree and kiss him until he quivered. He thought about the years before this one, watching Oliver learn to walk and talk and write, bathing his wounds, swabbing his tears, helping him grow. He thought about the years to come. They were doomed, he knew. There was no happy ending they could hope for. Forbidden love was all the rage in high society, they said; but some things could never be.

Perhaps, he thought, the happy ending was overrated. Perhaps there was so much more joy to be found in the happy here-and-now.

He gazed down into his master's pale eyes. They were waiting for him.

"You'll waste yourself on me," he managed.

Oliver hesitated. Then, "By God," he whispered, "I hope so."

He pushed his lips to Dmitri's once more; they held this time, and for long minutes they kissed in the doorway, until Dmitri began to forget himself and all he could feel was the young man in his arms. Hands began to roam. Oliver's lips were so soft, his whole body so pristine and such a perfect fit in Dmitri's arms, and he shivered so deliciously as they kissed. Dmitri's heart began to beat in double-time before Oliver drew back, biting his lip.

"I love you," his master breathed. He studied Dmitri's face. "You are so... I... I wish to – to stay with you. Indefinitely."

"You're so young," Dmitri said, ignoring the pounding of his heart. "We... we cannot be. Some storms cannot be weathered. Even by Fowls."

Oliver's eyes glittered with tears. "Secret storms can."

"You need to marry. You need to produce an heir."

"Does it mean I have to love her?" Oliver swallowed; he pushed his hands up Dmitri's jaw, shaking. "I love you. You are... you are _him_, Dmitri. I will spend my life in your care one way or another. I... I want it to be in every possible way."

"And if your love for me dies? If it cools? What then? You – you will be forever chained to a man you hate. If this love sours – "

Oliver shivered. "Dmitri... have you ever known a Fowl to give up something he loves? Or to sour over it?"

Dmitri had to confess – he had not. Fowls were not fickle. Fowls selected their hobbies and interests and loves for life. Never once had he known the master to express intrigue in any woman but his wife, and never had he known a Fowl to obsess over something one day and disregard it the next. Fowls mated for life. They never surrendered to hardship but fought it, and came out on the other side stronger, closer, more in love than ever.

No Fowl had fought _this_, though. Something this colossal.

Then again; Oliver Fowl was a whole new breed of Fowl. Perhaps there was a way. There was a chance, at least, and it was all they needed. The past year had been the happiest of Dmitri's life.

From downstairs there came a call, and they jumped apart.

"Olly?"

It was the master.

"Olly, are you coming? Your mother's making cocoa, Olly. Do hurry!"

Oliver turned to Dmitri, hesitating.

And Dmitri smiled. It was all he could do.

"Go on," he said softly. "It is tradition, after all."

"Will you join me later?" Oliver asked, and – for perhaps the first time in his life – blushed. "I... I apologise, that was very forward of – "

"I will." Dmitri dipped his head. He stole a kiss, swift and sweet. "Go, love. They're waiting."

Oliver's eyes lit up with his smile. "Alright... I'll see you later." He squeezed Dmitri's hand, then turned and hurried along the corridor. Dmitri watched him go. He disappeared around the corner of the stairs. Soon, Dmitri heard his family greet him with joy and welcome him into their midst, and the decorating began. Their laughter filled the house. _'Good King Wenceslas' _resounded up the stairs, Master Marcus singing louder than all, and Dmitri hummed it in his room for the rest of the evening.

Soon after midnight, he heard Madame and Master Fowl retire to bed.

The tree would be resplendent in all its decorated glory, and in the morning, the staff would tell Master Fowl it was without doubt the finest tree to date. It always was. Master Marcus would invite round his schoolfellows to admire it. On Christmas Eve, Master Fowl would gather the staff around it to announce their Christmas bonus. Few trees were so loved as the Fowl tree.

Dmitri left his book and half a glass of wine in his rooms. He made his way silently through the house, and let himself into the deep darkness of Master Oliver's rooms.

Oliver was sitting up in bed, the Egyptian linen sheets held shyly to his chest. He was naked. His hair was tousled about his bare shoulders, and the flush of his cheeks was visible even in the darkness. His eyes shimmered as Dmitri came in. He stirred, biting his lip, and laid back against the pillows.

Dmitri locked the door one-handed. There was no need to speak.

He moved to the bedside in the darkness, undid his waistcoat, and shrugged it from his heavy shoulders.

Oliver watched, soft-eyed, as Dmitri moved onto his dress shirt and then his belt, leisurely opening the clasp and sliding it free. The Fowl heir stirred. He crawled across the bed and knelt in front of Dmitri, kissing along his jaw and unbuttoning his manservant's trousers, palming his heavy bulge gently. Dmitri shivered, wrapping an arm about Oliver's bare waist. The sheet had slipped down. Hot sparks of pleasure and want darted across his chest and over his shoulders, tumbling down his back, igniting on his skin. Oliver captured his mouth.

They kissed, shivering together, slow and tender in the dark. Oliver's skin was so soft, so touchable; pristine and pale and fragile under Dmitri's hands. His own fingers felt so rough in comparison. Oliver didn't seem to mind. He quivered cat-like as Dmitri stroked down his back, down to the soft roundness of his rump, squeezing, earning the manservant a choked little noise. They sank back to the bed.

Oliver pulled Dmitri atop him, with a little moan, and the heady kisses resumed. Soon Dmitri's trousers were pushed off and onto the floor, forgotten. Oliver's fingers – so perfect, artist's fingers – curved about his cock, comfortable and familiar. A year. A whole year, and this still felt brand new, each time they made love. He never got used to the coolness of Oliver's touch, the absolute pleasure his fingers brought. They coiled tight and began to stroke, stirring him, easing. He buried his face in the silkiness of his charge's neck. Shudders soon wracked his every muscle, and his mind began to melt. There was nothing but the moment and his Oliver and the darkness.

"Take me," Oliver whimpered in his ear; his right hand clutched at Dmitri's shoulder. "Say you will. Please. Please soon."

He caught the young man's lips, kissing him and whispering, "Shh, love..."

"P-please – oh, please." Oliver's hips rocked against him, restless. "I... I need it, 'mitri – "

They found oil; Oliver climbed into his lap, and Dmitri held him close as he eased the young man with his fingers. Oliver relaxed so readily after a year of making love that he was ready in minutes, begging weakly in Dmitri's ear, moaning with delight as three fingers pushed easily in and out of his body. Resisting his pleas was no option. Dmitri laid the Fowl heir back against the pillows, propping his hips with a stray cushion. He kissed the young man to quieten him, murmuring, "Shhh, Olly..."

His hushing and sweet nothings continued as they joined; Oliver was always vocal now, always needy, nonsense bubbling from his lips. He dug his fingers into his bodyguard's back, gasping, pulling Dmitri in. Dmitri screwed his eyes tightly shut. Keeping control in this moment was hard enough, let alone with Olly beneath him, whimpering and gasping for him.

He held onto himself, barely; relief coursed through his muscles as he sank inside to the hilt, and Oliver let out a faint cry of want, shuddering around him.

"Oh God – " Oliver swallowed. "Oh God I love you – i-in me – oh God, so deep – _'mitri_ – "

Dmitri took a long breath, trailing shaky kisses over his charge's neck. It was becoming harder and harder to coax Oliver to hush. He began to thrust gently, slowly. Oliver's breath hitched. His mouth fell open and his thighs tightened around Dmitri's waist, a flush blooming in his cheeks.

"Y-yes – yes, oh God... _yes_..."

Dmitri tried not to think – he tried not to think about the heat, the tightness, the delicious shudders rippling through all of Oliver's body and massaging him, squeezing him. He tried not to sink into Oliver's half-delirious moans and pleas. He concentrated instead on the scent of Oliver's sheets, the feel of Oliver's fingers clutching reflexively at his back, how Oliver's hair looked splayed against the pillows. It did little to cool his ardour. Contemplating any aspect of Oliver only made him harder. He gave in to the heat of it all, the power, sliding himself deeper and faster in and out of his lover's body. Oliver choked and began to beg. The blazing knot of pleasure in Dmitri's stomach started tightening.

And in the middle of it all, he found a strange awareness – a little consciousness returned to his mind, a little clarity. He felt his impending climax as if he were observing it from somewhere else, somewhere higher. He felt Oliver's, too. He felt Olly's pleasure and need as if it were his own.

He lifted his lips to his charge's ear.

"I adore you," he breathed. He let the words tumble from his lips, pour over Oliver's ear. "I love you."

"Oh God," Oliver gasped. His whole body tightened. "Oh _God - !!_"

Two more strokes, deep and hard, and Oliver came with a ragged howl that tore through the manor, his head shoved back into the pillows and his whole body jerking with pleasure. His fluid spattered between them. Dmitri's muscles bulked. He swore and the heat claimed him at last, seized him. He panted against Oliver's neck as he came, pouring himself into his lover's body, lost in delight.

Two minutes later, Madame Fowl came inquiring at the door.

Oliver, tousled but composed, informed her he was moments away from sleep when a spider of truly epic proportions ran across his pillow. He was so sorry to have woken her. He would ask Butler to check the place for a nest tomorrow.

Madame Fowl – whose arachnophobia kept her awake most nights in early September – gave him a tight hug and told him she would have screamed too. Yes, Oliver said, she would. It was a beast of a thing. The size of it would have made a milkmaid faint.

Dmitri, concealed naked in Oliver's wardrobe, rolled his eyes.

*

Christmas Eve came before Dmitri knew it, and the first party to be held in Fowl Manor for several centuries was in full flow. The manor was alive with people and candles. Tables in every room were laden down with food and drink, and amusing little paper hats that Master Marcus insisted everyone wear at all times. Music rang through every corridor. It began to snow just after eight; a hand stole into Dmitri's as he observed the festivities from a corner of the lounge.

"Come on," whispered a voice in his ear. "I have your present... come with me."

They hurried through the servant corridors together, hand-in-hand, as _'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' _rang down from the floors above. Nobody was around. They stole into a disused library and hid behind the bookshelves, grinning, flushed with their daring. Oliver nestled in his lap.

"Here..."

He handed Dmitri a box, tiny, wrapped to perfection.

"It's nothing extravagant," he whispered as Dmitri plucked carefully at the ribbon, untying the little package. "I just thought... if you wore it beneath your shirt, and no-one would know..."

Dmitri eased open the box. Inside, on a tiny cushion of purple velvet, sat two rings. They were white gold and engraved with a line of Gaelic, custom-made. They must have cost more than Dmitri could hope to make in a decade.

"One for each of us," Oliver whispered. He bit his lip. "Do you like them?"

Wordlessly, Dmitri eased the rings from the box; he took Oliver's hand in his own.

Oliver began to cry as he eased the ring in place.

"They're beautiful," he whispered in his charge's ear. "Thank you." He reached beneath the neck of his shirt for the chain on which he wore his crucifix. Carefully he unclipped it. Oliver slid the ring on, refastening the clasp, tucking it beneath his collar.

His own token of appreciation seemed paltry in comparison. Oliver loved the book, though; a very rare first edition of short stories he knew Oliver had adored since he was a child. Tracking the edition down had been no small feat. He had inscribed the book inside the front cover, marking it as a gift from a great admirer and promising his eternal devotion.

Oliver hugged him and kissed him, and told him he was the perfect lover. They wished each other a Merry Christmas, and all the best for the year ahead, all the joys it would bring. They lapsed into kissing.

It was how Master Fowl found them.

He'd been looking for Oliver, he said, as he stood shaking in the doorway. A maid said she thought she'd seen them leave the party. He'd wondered what they could possibly be doing in the old servant quarters.

Dmitri would remember very little of the rest of the night.

He remembered Oliver crying, pulling at his father's arms, begging and crying, "Father, please – _please!_", and though he remembered none of what Master Fowl said, he remembered Master Fowl reaching such a point of anger that he managed to black Dmitri's eye. Never in the history of the family had a Butler been injured by a Fowl. Dmitri's training kicked into life and he trapped the master in a headlock, stopping him from throwing any more punches, and Oliver was crying harder than ever.

When he let the master go, Dmitri realised that the master, too, was weeping. Master Fowl sat huddled and sobbing on the floor, asking how they could do this to him.

None of their party guests had any idea. The night continued without incident, and the day after, Master Fowl making jokes and wishing everyone the best of the season, congratulating Marcus on his fine collection of gifts. No-one knew what had transpired that night, except the three of them. Even Madame Fowl was not made aware of the situation until Boxing Day. Master Fowl would not ruin her Christmas.

Before New Year, Dmitri Butler was asked to leave Fowl Manor. He was driven away in a horse-drawn cart, his head hung, and the snow fell down and swallowed up his tracks.

Oliver Fowl's illness was attributed to the cold weather, even as the months rolled into summer and his summerhouse stood empty in the garden. He would not leave his room. He would not eat. He would not speak.

Madame Fowl cried from morning until night, not sleeping. She paced the corridors, sobbing into a handkerchief all night long. The only time she stopped crying was when blazing arguments could be heard inside the locked master bedroom, things thrown, objects smashing. These arguments ended each time with the master storming from the room, raging at the servants to bring his dogs, and heading out into the hills regardless of the weather. He stayed out for five or six hours.

He came back as cheerful and breezy as if he'd never gone, asked his wife what was for dinner, and told the servants to take the night off.


	11. Minimalism

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

_**By Mottlemoth**_

_*****_

**Chapter Eleven**

_Author's Notes_

For UK readers, all playful swipes at Geordie girls are purely playful (I've dated Geordie girls, they're lovely). Also, if anything in this chapter makes you spit out your tea and start typing a death threat to me, please keep reading.

*****

Butler woke up one evening, burnt himself some toast, glanced at the calendar and realised he'd lived in Newcastle for four years.

He realised it not in the usual sense of a realisation – he felt no real surprise, and no sense of things changing. He felt no joy or alarm. He realised it, as he realised so many other things in his life now, with a grey and unassuming disinterest. Four years meant as little as three years had, two years, one year, and it meant as little as forty years would.

It was just another dead fact that made up his existence. It was like realising his eyes were blue, or his name was Butler, or he hadn't spoken to another human in three weeks. Dead facts.

_Four years_, he thought, sitting on his moth-eaten couch alone by the light of a single bare bulb. He took a bite of his toast. _Huh._

Did it feel like four years? He didn't know. He couldn't remember what four years felt like. He thought about it, and realised that four years was the time it had taken for Artemis to move from "My name 'Temis, I three now," to "Could you hand me the wrench please, Butler?"

He still measured his life in terms of Artemis. Today, four years on, he lived the same life he had lived when it was a day since he left. He still walked around the supermarket and saw every food in terms of whether Artemis liked it or not. He scanned the television guide and picked out shows Artemis would like. He read the paper and envisioned the letters Artemis would write to the editor. He woke up every night at six and looked in his shabby wardrobe, and as he picked out his shirts, he rubbed them instinctively between his fingers and wondered if Artemis would want to feel this texture today.

Then he realised; every time, he realised. He stood in Tesco looking at the boxes of Earl Grey and realised. He scanned the television guide and realised. He read the paper, realising. He picked out his shirts and realised, and he held them to his face and all over again he drove away from some hospital in Ireland, drove away from his life.

_Four years_. He washed up his plate and dressed for work. _My name 'Temis, I three now._ _Don't go. Domovoi, don't go._

He shaved. He made himself a sandwich, laying the lettuce leaves criss-cross over the bread the way Artemis had liked. He laced up his shoes. He turned out the bulb. He left his tiny, grotty flat, locking the door behind him, and let himself out into the by-now black Newcastle air.

The district in which Butler lived was known for its staggering crime rate, something reflected in the rate of his rent. He got the flat for next to nothing. Nobody wanted to live here.

Apparently, there was barely a flat in this building that had not been burgled multiple times over the past four years – in fact, there was only one. It was Butler's. The local gangs took one look at him on the street and edged away, mumbling good evening and lovely day we're having. They needn't have worried. Butler doubted he had the energy to protect anything anymore, even himself. If they attacked him, he would just hand over his keys and his wallet. He'd sit in the street when they were gone, sit on the kerb, thinking about the time when Artemis was four and had gotten obsessed with keys. He'd loved them. All he did was want to play with keys. He'd locked the entire family in the dining room by accident that Christmas. Butler had to kick the door down.

Sixteen years ago now; it might as well have been yesterday, or never at all.

Butler worked as a night guard at a local factory. It was now the least-broken-into factory in most of Newcastle. Groups of local kids had continued to break in for his first year of working there, but their visits dwindled sharply when rumours of the new security guard made the rounds. Once upon a time, such a reputation would have made Butler proud. Now, he couldn't care less.

It was a couple of hours until he started work, but he often started early. There was precious little else to do with his life.

He liked to be in the factory after hours. He wandered through the dark and the silence, listening to the echoes of his feet, and he felt strangely understood. The building knew how he felt - they were both shells, all full of nothing and darkness. They liked each other's company. For four years Butler had protected this place, and in his rare moments of hope, he wondered if things would change when he hit sixteen years of employment – when he'd protected it longer than Artemis. He supposed it would burn down or something then. Somehow he'd bring it to the ground. He'd hurt it somehow, destroy it.

As he turned down the road to the factory, the smell of beer filled Butler's nose and dulled his thoughts for a second.

There was a bar on the corner. He passed it every day, but had never been inside. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking across the road, listening to the people laughing inside. He could hear the crackle of a television. Football was on. Light seemed to spill from the bar, teeming into the darkness, and it stirred the cold quiet of Butler's heart.

He'd never had the opportunity of pubs, working for the Fowls. Even before Artemis's accident, an alcoholic Butler was an ineffective butler.

He looked at his watch. Would it hurt? He'd not tasted beer in years, or played darts, or watched football. Artemis had hated football.

Artemis was gone now, though. It stung. Artemis was gone, for all his hatred of football, and Butler let the sting burn its way through his heart as he stared across the road into the bar. For some reason, going into a pub would spell the end. As Artemis's bodyguard, he could not have entered a pub. To enter a pub now...

_Four years_. Just one beer. Just a bit of warmth.

People looked around as Butler edged through the door of the pub. A few conversations faltered. He ignored them, hoping they'd give him the same respect, and made his way to the bar. The landlord – God bless him – didn't try small-talk. He seemed to know a broken man when he saw one.

"Pint, mate," he said, as Butler opened his mouth. Butler nodded, mute, and sat down.

He didn't know who was playing in the match, but he watched anyway. He sat in his coat, holding his pint, listening to the pub rumble and chatter around him and feeling a million miles away from it all. Still, it was nice to be somewhere with more than one light bulb for once. A woman in a tight velvet boob tube trotted into the pub, and he thought about how Artemis had loved the feel of velvet.

He returned to his pint. When it was empty, he asked for another. The landlord handed it over, saying to him bracingly, "Long day, pal?"

Butler swallowed. "Yeah. Really long."

He was about to start on his second pint, when someone sat down beside him. He looked around. The velvet boob tube was sitting beside him, and she was a bleach blonde except for three inches of brown at her roots. She grinned.

"Hey, big guy... I've not seen you here before."

"Just stopped in." _Go away_, Butler thought, and accompanied it with his best _go away_ face. She seemed immune. She leant in, batting her clumpy eyelashes in his direction.

"So what's your name, hulk?"

"Dave," he grunted.

"I'm Natalie."

"Great. It's a pleasure."

"Ohmygaaawd! Are you Irish?" She swooned. "Ooh I _love_ Irish accents. Go on. Go on, say something – which bit of Ireland are you from? Have you ever seen a leprechaun? Ooh, I just love Irish guys..."

Butler considered the situation. If he moved quickly, he could get hold of the major artery in her neck and knock her out before anybody noticed. He could also leave, though he suspected she might follow. He rather wanted to stay anyway. He'd only just started his pint.

Natalie's fingers, he realised, were walking along the sleeve of his jacket. She'd leant forward in a way that pressed her breasts together right up to her neck. The effect wasn't as alluring as she clearly thought it was.

"So... how about you buy me a drink," she soothed, "and I get your next pint?"

Butler hesitated.

Four years, he'd lived in Newcastle. Three years, Artemis had been dead. He remembered opening the paper one morning and seeing it there, page twenty or so, after all the rubbish about celebrities and politics. _Medieval Manor Burns To Ground In Ireland_. A fault in the electrics, they said. The manor's butler, who had only worked there a year, escaped alive but horrifically burnt. The only other occupant of the manor was a blind young man, whose bedroom was so badly destroyed they couldn't even recover a body. Terrible accident, the papers said. No family left. Nobody seems to have known anything about the young man. So young, so sad.

Butler looked down at Natalie with the boob tube. She batted her eyelashes expectantly.

"Fine," he said. He reached for his wallet. "What're you having?"

*

Butler stopped in at the pub each night before work now. He was introduced to all of Natalie's friends, who turned out to be even more hideous than she was. At least it was company. He sat amongst them all, saying nothing, nursing his pint and staring at the football as they clucked and gossiped around him.

"Dave's the strong and silent type," she would giggle, whenever anyone commented on his rather aloof nature. "Aren't you, sweetie?"

He came to the pub on his rare nights off, too, just to sit somewhere warm and to hear human voices. Natalie wheedled his phone number out of him. She would call him before work and at the weekend, and tell him all about her drunken nights out with the girls, her job at the off-licence. One night, they went to a new Chinese that had opened around the corner, and the next week, the pub all seemed to be in agreement that the two of them were now an item. Butler didn't have the strength to argue. Natalie now sat on his knee at the pub.

Before he knew it, a month had passed.

He walked her home from the pub one night when she was too drunk to be responsible for herself. Her arm appeared in a loop around his. He walked on as if he hadn't noticed, and she tottered along at his side, chattering about the time an associate of hers vomited on a gentleman she was copulating with. Butler tried to appear amused. It was rather hard.

When they reached her flat, to Butler's surprise, Natalie wheeled around and pushed herself up against the door. She glared at him hungrily.

"So... you want to come in?" she burred, pushing her breasts together. She didn't seem quite as drunk anymore, but then again, Butler thought, it was difficult to tell with Newcastle girls.

"No – I have to work tomorrow. Sorry."

She crooned with disappointment. "Oh, Davie..." She sashayed up to him, pouting, and took a hold of his tie. "Please. Just for coffee."

"Sorry. I've got to go."

"You're a _weird_ guy, Davie... don't think I've known another guy say no." She ran her hand down his chest. "Come on, just come inside. Let's see if we can soften up your big, tough, grizzly bear exterior..."

Butler held up his hands, pushing her back.

"No. Sorry, again. I'm... a bit more of a traditional guy."

"Oooh, okay." She grinned. "That's kinda sweet. Taking it slow. Alright, baby."

"Uh, thanks."

"Don't... leave it too long, though, will you? A girl's got needs, you know."

Butler grunted goodnight and left. He had a long shower when he got home, trying to scrub off the smell of cheap perfume and her caked foundation. He binned the tie.

At first, Natalie seemed quite pleased with his reluctance. She happily told the pub that he was a 'right gentleman', and that they were waiting so as not to cheapen their love. As the weeks passed, though, her needs seemed to outweigh the appeal of romantic abstinence. He tried to avoid walking her home as much as possible.

"How long are we gonna wait though?" she said one night, when she succeeded in making him accompany her. She grappled for his hands as he tried to back away. "I mean... there's slow and there's _nowhere_, Davie. Just come inside."

"A bit longer. Please. I don't want to rush things."

"You're not one of those... wait-until-marriage freaks, are you?"

"No. I just want to wait."

"_Why_, though?" she said. She squeezed his wrists. "Why wait? Why not now? Why don't you want to?"

Butler looked at her. He wondered what would happen if he told her the truth; if he shrugged and said, _four years ago, I got so freaked out by my gay attraction to a teenage boy that I probably killed him._

"Let me think about it," he said.

She sighed, rolled her eyes and let herself into the flat without another word. She slammed the door. Butler walked home, glad of the peace, thinking about Artemis.

A week passed.

He didn't see Natalie much at the pub until Saturday, when she stuck close to his side all night and kept buying him drinks. Usually she left at half eleven, but tonight she seemed to be staying to the end. The pub slowly emptied of people. Last orders were called, and Butler stood up to leave.

"I'll walk you home," he grunted at her.

She latched onto his arm. "No, you won't," she said. "We're going to your flat. I haven't seen it yet."

"I'm tired. The place is a mess, anyway."

"All blokes have messy flats. Come on." She tugged him towards the door. "No more excuses."

Butler tried to think of an excuse that didn't count as an excuse. There were none. If he had the strength, the energy, he would have taken her to one side and explained he wasn't ready for a relationship. He was messed up. He was not dating material and she was wasting her time. In a few years, when he was more settled, when things were better, they could attempt a fulfilling sexual relationship but not now.

That was the problem, though – would things ever be better? What would change?

Maybe it was worth a try. It couldn't hurt. She wanted it, and he was too tired to keep dodging it, and Artemis was dead and gone. He'd never been Domovoi's, anyway. What was the point in honouring a past that had never been?

He let Natalie lead him from the pub. He then began the reluctant slope home, and she clicked along beside him in her plastic heels, her head held high, her arm hooked about his own.

As they neared his building, he caught the flicker of concern cross her face.

"Problem?" he asked.

"I didn't know you lived in this area. S'a bit rough, I've heard."

Butler huffed. "Nothing around here comes near me. I've not had trouble in four years. You're safe."

She sighed, grinning up at him. "You're such a gentleman," she cooed, and he pushed open the door to the building, letting her go first.

She was not impressed with his flat. She stood in the doorway, casting a hesitant eye over the bare bulb and the cold sofa, the piles of washing up on the side. He rather hoped she would change her mind about him and leave, but her resolve seemed stronger than that. After a few minutes, and a few insincere comments about how lovely the place was, she plonked her handbag on his kitchen table and filled his kettle.

"Let's have some coffee," she trilled.

Butler sat down on the couch, turned on the television and hoped she'd get the message. She didn't. She brought him a coffee a few minutes later, put it out of his reach and sat on his knee. Butler stared at the television.

"Davie," she said at last in his ear.

"Mm."

"Is tonight the night?"

"I don't think so. I'm tired."

"I know how to wake you up," she said, grinning, and slid off his knee. Butler watched with a mixture of horror and total disinterest as she stood before him, blocking the view to the television, and began to unzip her boob tube. "Come on, Davie. You know you want this."

He watched her strip, still feeling rather uninspired. He supposed he should at least _try_ to put some effort in, but good God, what was the strange wiggly dance she was doing? Was this meant to be sexy? When she tottered out of her skirt, she threw it playfully over his face. He left it there, staring into the material. It was by far the best part of her dance.

Unfortunately she then came and took it off, and he had to look at her again. She now stood before him in a scarlet plunge bra and little lace knickers that had seen better days. Madame Fowl wouldn't have stood for such greying undergarments in her house.

"Are you hard yet?" she purred at him, sliding onto his lap. She was still wearing her plastic high heels.

He faced her breasts. One of the diamante twinkles on her bra was missing. It knocked out the pattern, and he wished he knew why he found it so irritating. Didn't this woman own _any_ new underpants?

"Sure," he said, remembering she'd asked him a question. "Of course I am."

She reached behind herself to unhook her bra. "Really?"

"Yes. This is definitely erotic."

"Ooh, I love you talking dirty in that voice... tell me something sexy, Davie. Tell me what you're going to do to me."

Butler gave a small mental groan, but he doubted it was the variety of groan she wanted from him. He tried to think of something he could do to her. _I'll take you to Debenhams in the morning_, he thought. _We'll get you a nice new vest. Then we'll go to Tesco and get you some proper washing powder._

He opened his mouth, playing with some idea of saying he was going to have sex with her. Something to that effect. That was probably what she wanted to hear.

Unfortunately, his voice wasn't the next to speak.

"I'm very sorry, madam," said an annoyed, clipped Irish accent from the corner, "but I need to interrupt this before I actually vomit."

Natalie let out a shriek, leaping off Butler's lap. She staggered backwards and fell over the coffee table, dropping her bra in the process. Butler couldn't care less. He turned to stare over the back of the sofa, his heart battering against his ribs.

Artemis Fowl stepped from the shadows. He wore mirrored sunglasses, a belted black coat and a dress-shirt, and he was carrying the most formidable-looking gun that Butler had seen in his life.

Butler's jaw dropped. Artemis cocked the trigger.

"Hello, Butler," he murmured.

Natalie had had enough. She scrabbled to her feet, still screaming, and ran for the door. She bolted out before anyone could stop her, and took off down the stairs in her knickers and only one plastic high heel. Her shrieks about murderers eventually faded into silence.

"Shame," Artemis commented. "Pretty girl."

"You can see," Domovoi managed. He was dreaming – he had to be. His usual Artemis dreams didn't involve such scary-looking firearms, it had to be said, but this couldn't be real. "How – how did you – I thought you were – "

"Dead? How ironic. But I'm getting ahead of myself. And yes, Butler, I _can_ see."

Artemis strolled out from around the back of the sofa. He tapped the door shut, locking it with one hand, and moved to occupy Natalie's previous place between Domovoi and the television. Liquid coolant bubbled along the length of the gun, glowing nuclear-yellow in the eerie gloom of Domovoi's flat.

"I love what you've done with the place," Artemis said. "Very minimalist."

"Why are you here?" Domovoi asked, digging his fingers into the couch.

Artemis's lips curved.

"Funny story," he said.


	12. Funny Story

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**_**  
By Mottlemoth**_

_*****_

**Chapter Twelve**

*****

Artemis lifted the end of his gun, brushing away a smudge on the barrel. "But how have _you_ been, Butler? Tell me that first, before we begin. I'm sure my four years have been trivial and uninteresting compared to yours."

He glanced around, disinterested.

"Why," he said. "Your little bachelor pad alone suggests a riotous and luxurious lifestyle, full of company and personal fulfilment."

Domovoi swallowed slightly. "How did you find me? How... how did you survive – "

"The fire? Mm. Fortunately enough, the answer to both your questions is 'with ease'."

"But – the manor was burnt to the ground. I saw the pictures on the news."

"Yes. Interestingly, this brings me to my first important point of the night. The point being, things rarely turn out to be what you thought they were." Artemis's mouth curved, his head tilting to one side. "Or who."

"A-Artemis – you're scaring me."

"You don't know what being scared is," Artemis whispered. Domovoi fell silent again. The Fowl heir studied him from behind the sunglasses, and Domovoi could feel the weight of his stare. It was eerie. The twenty-year-old Artemis was even more imposing than he'd been as a child. "I'd say you've had a quiet four years, old friend. From the look of you, you've rotted away happily in this flat and done your best to forget. Am I right?"

"I – I've never forgotten – "

"Actually, Butler, I've changed my mind. I don't want you to talk."

Domovoi shut up. Artemis studied him.

"Would you like to hear how my four years have been?" he said. Domovoi, making no noise, nodded. The Fowl heir reached down, picked up Butler's untouched coffee and drained half of it in one go. He then began.

"When you deserted me, I'll admit it took slightly longer for my survival instinct to kick in than I'd like. I estimate it was about two weeks of absolute heartbreak. Madame Ko sent some new idiot and I did nothing but lie in my bed, and then one morning – I woke up. I suddenly realised what I'd become. Not even since your abandonment, old friend, but before then... I mean, I'd de-evolved completely. I was useless. I had all the personal power of a run-over frog. I'd completely sacrificed all my ideals in the wake of the accident, telling myself I was weak now, I was troubled, I needed care... needed you."

He smiled.

"All untruths. I abandoned them. I resolved to change, to get back on my feet, and to restore my life to its former glory. I realised that three things stood in my way."

Domovoi said nothing, trying not to guess the three things. Artemis proceeded.

"The first," he said. "My blindness. Initially, it seemed the largest obstacle in my path before I realised how ironically blind I had been. All this time, and the thought of approaching the People had not once crossed my mind. I'd assumed my contact with them was finished forever, now I was blind. A ridiculous notion.

"I could not contact any of my previous associates – Captain Short, Commander Root... I had too much history with them, and too many complications could arise. Instead, and under the nose of my new bodyguard, I managed to place adverts in a number of international newspapers, offering vast quantities of money in exchange for contact with a member of the People. I had responses. I followed them through. This is all trivial, Butler. It took me the better part of a year, but I'm sure you care very little about the details. What it means to you. My tenacity has worked well for me this year. In the end I located a famed and reclusive watchmaker in Germany, known worldwide for his short stature and dislike of natural light.

"It cost me most of the Fowl bank account, but he agreed to bring to me a piece of fairy technology which would enable me to see. He could not heal my eyes himself, his magic weakened from life amongst humans... though he did locate me these rather wonderful glasses."

He smiled, nudging the visor into place.

"They're striking, are they not?" he said.

Domovoi mumbled an indistinct yes, unsure if it were safe for him to speak.

Artemis hummed. "They're fascinating. I cannot, in fact, _see_ as a normal person would – the glasses largely work using radar. They register patches of light and dark, and depth, and they sense movement. Intriguing, don't you think?"

"Yes – intriguing."

"Mm. My sight is now superior to anything it ever was..." He glanced around. "Observe."

There was a particularly large bluebottle fly drifting about the kitchen area. There were always insects in the flat. The building was filthy, and Domovoi didn't have the enthusiasm to change anything. This fly was a particularly handsome specimen though, huge and heavy, buzzing absently near the fridge.

Artemis lifted the gun. He squeezed the trigger.

There was a bolt of bright white light – Domovoi jumped. There was a sizzling noise and a brief flash, and in the momentary blaze of light, Domovoi saw the fly erupt into a single spark. The light died. The spark vanished. The fly was gone, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

"You'll notice my aim has also improved," Artemis murmured, and cocked the trigger again.

Domovoi swallowed around the thick lump in his throat. "It has."

"My second obstacle," Artemis said, "was my new bodyguard. An imbecile, even compared to you. Tracking down the fae had been a struggle enough with constant meddling and supervision."

He smiled.

"I torched the manor. I burnt it to the ground. I needed the world to assume I was dead."

Domovoi's chest ached. "Your family – all your history – "

"My family have known necessity," Artemis said, with a slight sneer. "They would have applauded my actions. My resolve to regain independence. The Fowl bloodline survives in me, not in our residence."

He brushed back his hair.

"Presumed dead, I could take on my third obstacle. I needed to avenge the deaths of my parents and ensure that such a threat would not be made against me in future. It's a long story, Butler, and I tire of speaking to you. It's enough to say I hunted down the culprits and uncovered their motives. It took two and a half years of my life. I found the man ultimately responsible for my parents' deaths, for my blindness, and I took my bloody revenge. You'd have been proud of me. I also took enough portable property from the gentleman to sell, and so I purchased myself a small flat in London. There I settled. My plan was, and is, this: I will continue to amass funds through any means possible, until I can either restore the manor or establish a new one. This was six months ago."

Domovoi was reeling. He had known Artemis was ambitious and prepared to make personal sacrifices – even at twelve, during Artemis's first adventure with the fae, Domovoi had often glimpsed a ruthless streak.

This was more than a streak, though. This was ruthless to the bone.

Artemis a killer? A force of vengeance? The hardness and the bite in Artemis's voice were staggering. He had grown up, Domovoi realised. He'd grown up hard and fast and by the tips of his claws, and on the other side had emerged this young man that Domovoi hardly recognised.

"This was six months ago," Artemis said, quietly. "I adjusted to life in London. I carried out a number of small thefts, padding my comfortable bank account. Before I torched the manor, I had moved a number of assets to various alternative identities set up in advance, and so I began returning the Fowl wealth to its proper owner. Me. Things were going well... but I was not happy, Butler."

A strange tightness was beginning in Domovoi's chest, like a knot.

"Something hung over me," Artemis said. "Some black cloud. Something continued to ruin my existence and prevent me from moving on. Something dragged me back to dark times. I couldn't think what it was – what could hold me back – what injury I might still carry."

He licked his lips.

"And then I realised."

The pieces fell into place in Domovoi's mind. He looked up into Artemis's pale face.

"You've come to kill me," he said.

Artemis did not move or speak for a moment. Then he said, quietly, "The gun is fairy-hardware – the very latest technology from anywhere under the world. It's capable of basically vaporising any biological matter in a number of seconds. It could turn a bull elephant to powder before the elephant heard the shot."

Domovoi's heart sped up. "I see."

"I'm aware you pose a physical threat to me," Artemis said – though as he spoke, Domovoi realised there were cracks appearing in the persona. The line of Artemis's shoulders was too hard, too rigid. His voice betrayed a shake. "I don't see why I should give you the honour of a fair fight, old friend. Why I should confront you on equal terms."

Domovoi said nothing. Never in his life had he been so aware of death, so close to it. His mind was numb. He could not think.

"Who was the girl?" Artemis asked. Domovoi inhaled slowly.

"She's... Natalie. I met her a few months ago and she seemed to take a shine to me. She's a sweet girl, I just – "

"Why the hell did you leave me?" Artemis burst out, suddenly. Domovoi lapsed into silence. The gun was still pointed his way, still cocked, and he looked up at Artemis along the length of the barrel. Artemis was shaking.

Domovoi had died the day he left Artemis's side. What would he lose, to be vaporised now? What was there left to vaporise? The sight of Artemis here, the perfect Artemis Fowl, standing and shaking in some grotty Newcastle flat, stirred Domovoi's heart into life and he wasn't afraid as he answered.

"I was falling for you," he said. He stared into the mirrored lenses. "I was having inappropriate thoughts – my attraction was interfering with my duty. I proved to myself that I couldn't defend you. I couldn't look after you. I..."

He steeled himself.

"I failed as your Butler. I failed you. I couldn't stay."

Artemis's jaw was set. His knuckles were white on the gun, and his voice shook with restraint.

"You have no idea how much I _loved_ you."

Domovoi closed his eyes.

"_Look at me_ - _!!_" Artemis hissed, and Domovoi forced his eyes open. Artemis looked as if he were about to shake himself apart. "You – you were everything_. Everything_. Since the day I was _born_, Butler, I – "

He swallowed, the barrel of the gun now jittering dangerously.

"You were all I wanted," he gasped out. "And I _needed_ you. _I needed you and you left me._" Tears began to wind beneath the mirrored lenses. "You're the only thing I _ever_ needed in my whole miserable life and you_left_. You left me behind."

"I was _ruining_ you – " Domovoi choked out, and Artemis twitched so suddenly that Domovoi felt sure it was the end. The coolant in the gun bubbled and spat.

"You weren't _ruining_ me," Artemis said. "This was _never_ about me – _never_ – this was about _you_, Butler, _bloody you_ – and do you want to know the _truth_?"

Domovoi didn't move. Artemis's teeth gritted, his chest heaving as he spat out,

"_You got scared_."

"I didn't get... I was _failing_ you as your - "

"_You've never been a butler!!"_ Artemis half-howled. He dragged in a great breath of air. "Butlers bring _afternoon tea!_ Butlers polish _shoes_ and answer the _phone!_ You think my ancestors bonded your _entire family_ to ours so you could bring me tea and polish my shoes and answer the phone!?"

Domovoi didn't understand. He stared.

Artemis choked back another breath, calming.

"You're not my butler – you're my Butler. You're my soul-mate. You were my soul-mate before I was born. _All Fowls love their Butler_."

"I – not the same way that – "

"Yes. Just as powerful." Artemis swallowed. "Your uncle – a-and my father – it might not be sex but it was love. They were prepared to die together."

He hung his head.

"And you weren't even prepared to live with me," he whispered.

Domovoi's heart began to speed. He sat up. "Artemis – _Artemis_, I – it was a mistake. A _huge_ mistake. Every day I regret _ever_ – "

"You don't regret it," Artemis said. His finger tightened around the trigger of the gun. "You've got a flat and a girlfriend and a job. You've only gained. You're... you're the winner, aren't you, Butler?"

He looked up.

"I've got no eyes," he whispered. His voice broke. "A-And I've got no parents. I've got no _home_." His shoulders curled. "I – I burnt it all – I just watched it _burn_ and I thought – I thought I'd f-feel better – but I don't – o-oh God - _what have I done!?_"

His knees gave way. He hit the floor and the gun fell with him, dropped. He covered his face, sobbing.

Domovoi looked down as Artemis wept into his fists.

He remembered the first time Artemis had ever cried like this. He was three, running out onto one of the balconies when his foot caught the divider and he fell with an almighty smack. Domovoi vaulted two sofas to get to him quickly. He had Artemis up in his arms before the little boy had even gotten over the shock and started crying – but when he cried, oh, _how_ he cried. He wailed for hours. The scrapes were only small, just on the palms of his hands and a little bruising on his knees, but he'd howled the house down. Hours, Domovoi had spent rubbing his back and hushing him. Every tear had cut him to the heart.

Now, seventeen years later, the sobs were no easier to hear.

They were just as impossible to ignore.

Before Domovoi knew what he was doing, he'd gotten off the couch. He'd knelt and wrapped his arms around the fragile form, so skinny, so gentle, and Domovoi didn't think twice about the gun. What importance was a gun, when Artemis was crying? Guns meant nothing. He gathered Artemis up from the floor, into the safety of his arms. He was so light. He was weeping like he didn't want to exist. Domovoi held him, rocked him, hushed him. He held him until the sobs began to soften.

Then – and only then – did he realise Artemis's tears weren't alone. Heat was tracking down his own face. His chest was shuddering, heaving. He was crying just as hard.

The realisation broke him open inside.

His face screwed tight. His fingers dug into Artemis's back and he choked, trying to fight it. He couldn't. It was too powerful.

"I –" He gasped in dead air. "I thought you were _dead_. I thought I'd _k-killed_ you. I thought – oh God, I thought - "

Artemis sobbed. "_D'movoi – _"

Domovoi gave in to the force of four years' misery, four years of guilt and loneliness. He wept. He buried his face in Artemis's neck and clung on, and let tears pour from him like he'd never known. Artemis held on just as tight. They slid to the floor.

A very long time seemed to pass.

By the time the tears were drying, the television channel had finished broadcasting for the night. A simple blue screen glowed in the darkness of the flat. They had fused together, hugging so tightly. Domovoi had forgotten which limbs were his and which belonged to Artemis. He didn't think it mattered. _Our limbs_, he thought. His heart swelled.

A silence came. It was almost awkward, almost funny; Artemis lifted his head at last. Domovoi looked down at his reflection in the glasses. He frowned.

Artemis tensed.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice raw.

"Can't look at you properly with these bloody things," Domovoi muttered. He reached for the visor. "You don't need them."

Artemis hesitated. "I'm keeping them."

"Fine," said Domovoi, and eased them away. He brushed Artemis's hair back into place. The Fowl heir's eyes were still a mess – still scared, raw, the milky irises searching and finding nothing. "On one condition."

"Yes?"

"_I_ am your primary eyes. _These_ things are your back-up eyes."

"Oh God. Domovoi."

"We need sleep," Domovoi said. He lifted Artemis from the ground, carrying him with ease towards the bedroom. "Then in the morning, you're going to have a proper breakfast because you're skin and bones – and _then_, we're getting the first boat back to Ireland. We'll think up some story for you surviving the fire. We'll claim the insurance and start restoring your manor, and get our lives back on track. Agreed?"

"I... I can't really think any further than 'sleep'. But yes, agreed." Artemis muffled a yawn against his shoulder. "I don't think I've slept in – "

" – about four years. I know. Let's start again together."

The bedroom was pitch black. Domovoi laid his armful of Artemis down amongst the covers, crawling in beside his charge. They burrowed under the covers together. Domovoi tucked them in, not wanting Artemis to be cold. Artemis's head nestled beneath his chin.

Quiet fell.

Then:

"D'movoi?"

"Mm?" Domovoi managed, half-asleep.

"I think I love you."

Domovoi snorted, smiling. "I _know_ I love you."

He felt Artemis's grin against his neck. "Alright." There was a little shifting. "We... we've got a lot to talk about."

"It can all wait," Domovoi whispered. He tightened his hold, threading his fingers into Artemis's hair. "I'll be here in the morning. I'll _always_ be here in the morning."

"Promise?" A little hesitance touched Artemis's voice.

"Promise. You've... heard the famous saying?"

"Mm?"

"_If you love it, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours_."

Artemis hummed. "I suppose we are each other's, then."

"We could well be," Domovoi murmured.

There was quiet for a little while.

"When you've got a gun that size, I'm _definitely _not going anywhere," he said, and Artemis snorted with laughter against his neck. They dissolved into silent laughter, shaking together.

When they woke in the morning, Domovoi made pancakes. They ate in bed. Domovoi packed the few belongings he wished to keep, though in truth, there was only one thing he wanted to take home to Ireland with him.

This something walked proudly at his side as they left the flat, called a taxi, and headed for the airport.

*

Domovoi had saved enough of his wages over four years for a first class cabin to be a trivial expense. As the plane took off, they sat side-by-side in plush leather seats and watched England grow smaller and smaller below them. Artemis sighed slightly.

"I feel sorry for your girlfriend," he said. "She'll have no idea where you've gone. The poor thing probably thought she'd landed quite a catch."

Domovoi rolled his eyes. "She'll get over me... I wasn't her type."

Artemis grinned. "Oh?"

"No -hopelessly incompatible. She deserved better."

"I'm sure she'll heal in time." Artemis tilted his head, studying Domovoi through the mirrored lenses. A small smile curved his lips, though it was hesitant. "Domovoi, I... I know this may be complicated. I know it might be difficult. I just..."

Domovoi let him fade into silence. He then leant forwards.

Their lips met; he felt every muscle in Artemis's body go still, all at once. He reached up to cup the Fowl heir's face in his hands. Gently, with every ounce of tenderness he possessed, he parted the soft lips and closed his eyes. Artemis quivered as their tongues stroked together. For a long time there was nothing else, just this quiet healing and the hum of the aircraft, and Domovoi discovered a little spot behind Artemis's ear that made the young man draw in a breath and push closer.

When they parted, Artemis's cheeks were flushed beneath the visor. His lips were a little parted.

Domovoi smiled. "First kiss?"

Artemis's expression shifted a little. "First real kiss."

Domovoi tried not to let the quiet flicker of jealousy show in his face. He tried to work out who else Artemis could have kissed – when did the boy ever have time, or access to people? He knew it shouldn't matter. Still, it would have been nice to be first.

Artemis's lips curved.

"You had the first kiss, too," he said.

Domovoi frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you someday." Artemis shifted nearer. "Second kiss?"

Domovoi smiled. How could he ever say no? The second kiss was only better than the first.

They were on their seventh kiss by the time the flight attendant came by, and asked gently if they'd mind. They didn't mind, and eased on the kissing for now, with guilty grins and glances shared for the rest of the flight.

There was plenty of time, after all. There was all the time in the world.


	13. 1864 Goose

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**_**  
By Mottlemoth**_

_*****_

**Chapter Thirteen**

*****

_Christmas 1865._

There came a knock on the door of Master Fowl's study, late on the first day of December. He looked up from his papers.

"Enter!"

The door opened; a maid peered in, anxiously. He hated how fearfully the servants treated him now. In a year, all had changed. They were so afraid of him. They treated him as if he was the tyrant of all tyrants, and it killed him a little more each time.

"Begging your pardon, sir."

"What is it, Mary?" he mumbled. "I'm rather busy."

She blushed. "Apologies, sir – Mrs Green thought we should let you know. The tree's arrived, sir. We've put it up." She bit her lip.

The master said nothing for quite some time. He looked back at his papers. He could feel her watching him, waiting, and he cleared his throat at last.

"Yes... thank you, Mary. Thank you for informing me."

"Do you... want me to tell Madame Fowl, sir?"

"No. No, that won't be necessary." It would only upset his wife. Then again, she would see the tree at some point – she'd need to be told before she stumbled across it. He sighed and stood up, pushing away his papers. "I'll tell her, Mary. Is dinner on schedule?"

"Yes, sir. Goose, sir."

"Excellent... thank you."

She left. He tidied his study, then made the heavy-hearted journey to the day room, his head bowed, his shoulders tense.

His wife sat in the window, looking across the snowy gardens. She had a book on her lap. As he entered, she looked up and the smallest of smiles graced her lips.

"Hello, darling." She looked tired; always, she looked tired now. So much had changed. "Is everything alright?"

"I... I wanted to come and tell you. The servants have put the tree up."

She hesitated. The smile disappeared from her face. "Oh," she said, and looked away. "Oh, I see."

She wasn't crying. It seemed to be a good sign and he stepped into the room, his heart lifting just a little. Maybe there was a chance for Christmas after all. Marcus would be so pleased. All holiday, since he'd come back from boarding school, he'd been asking why Oliver was still so ill. He asked why his mother cried all the time. He asked where Oliver's Butler had gone.

"Darling, seeing as the season is nearly upon us..." He came and sat by her in the window seat, putting his arm around her. She did not lean into his hug, or respond at all. He pushed on anyway. "I wondered... have you thought what you would perhaps like for Christmas this year?"

Nothing changed in her face.

"You know precisely what I want for Christmas, Robert," she whispered.

He stiffened. As he watched, dumbstruck, a single tear coursed down her pretty face.

He let her go. She didn't move. The silence lengthened until it was at last unbearable, and still she sat like a statue, crying silently.

He couldn't bear to see it. Even as he left, she didn't move. Only when he shut the door did he hear her sob at last, and he laid his forehead against the polished oak, closing his eyes.

He stood there for quite some time, until the smell of roast goose was wafting up through the house. He thought of the tree standing bare in the entrance hall for the first time in his life, and he thought of his eldest son wasting away in the room he hadn't left for a year, and his wife crying on what should be the happiest day of the year.

The servants were carrying the goose into the dining room as he hurried down the main staircase, pulling on his coat. Mrs Green, the housekeeper, turned.

"Master?"

"Keep it warm for me, Mrs Green. I have a quick errand to run."

"But master – the snows, sir! You'll freeze!"

"The better to freeze, Mrs Green," he cried, as he flung wide the front doors and stepped out into the darkness, "than to live another minute of this hell!"

He left, slamming the door behind him. Mrs Green, open-mouthed, glanced around at the other servants. They looked back just as pale and stunned.

"Do you think – " a maid began.

"By the saints," whispered Mrs Green. "I hope so. Oh, I hope so."

*

It was a tiny house. It was heart-breaking to see, the broken little place, the holes in the roof, the lack of _love_ here. The lack of family. As Master Fowl hurried up the path, he knew already that he'd made the right decision. His coach stood waiting in the street. The snow was ankle-deep by now, and Mrs Green's good goose would be going to waste.

He hammered on the door.

"Hello?" he cried; he couldn't hear movement. "I say, is anybody in? Hello!"

Something stirred inside the house. The light neared the windows, as a lamp was picked up and carried to the door.

As it opened, Master Fowl sank to his knees.

He knelt in the snow, his head hung, and he stared down at the heavy feet in his view. He clasped his hands together.

"I am so sorry," he gasped. "Please forgive me."

There was a long pause. "Why are you here?" came the gravelled voice in the doorway, tense and suspicious.

"Because – because I'm a fool. A bitter old frightened fool. Because my wife cries all day long and my son won't leave his bed. Because my house hasn't seen a smile in a year. Because I've made a mistake and I want to make amends – a _damn _hideous mistake."

He looked up.

"And because it's Christmas," he said, his heart breaking. He grasped Dmitri's hands. "Please, friend. Please come home. Please forgive a wretched old man and his fear."

Dmitri shifted uncomfortably. "I... I won't ruin your son, sir. He deserves better than me."

"No! No – no, old friend. I'm _proud_. Honoured to call you my son-in-law-in-heart. He could find no finer man in this world. I mean it – I mean it, sir. From the bottom of my soul."

The master shuddered, swallowing back his emotions. He gripped Dmitri's hands ever harder.

"Please, man. Please. Come home for Christmas. My family needs you."

Dmitri looked towards the waiting coach. His eyes were full of pain and hope – and in the end, the latter won.

"I..." He inhaled. "Give me a minute to shave."

"Oh – God _bless_ you, sir. God bless you." Master Fowl struggled to his knees, brushing snow from his clothes. "Let me run your hot water for you – speed is of the essence! We have Christmas to save!"

*

Oliver laid in bed in the dark. He was watching the snow fall. He only knew from the smell of goose that December must have come, and even now, they would be decorating the tree. His father would be pretending nothing was wrong – perhaps it would just be Father and Marcus. They would be hanging up tinsel and baubles, and singing together, two lone voices in the great big entrance hall. Later, someone would bring Oliver some goose and implore him to eat it – beg him to eat it. But eating made him sick now.

He closed his eyes, feeling the tears course down his face. It was all he had the strength for, now. He didn't know how he'd survive Christmas Eve.

Footsteps came along the corridor towards his room; slow, steady footsteps. There came a knock on his door. He did not answer. Most of the servants knew not to disturb Oliver; maybe there was a new butler. It was about time they replaced Dmitri. Oliver was surprised it hadn't happened within a week, as his father was enough of a monster to have done so.

A few moments passed. Then:

"Master Fowl?"

"What?" he said; it hurt to speak. He hadn't spoken in so long. "What is it?"

The door opened a crack. "The tree is up, sir. Your father wants to know if you'll be joining us to decorate."

Oliver was almost sick on the spot. How dared the man ask? How dared he send someone up here to ask, as if nothing was wrong? As if Oliver would come waltzing down, healthy again, and - ...

He stopped.

He sat up, turning his head to the door. His visitor lingered out of sight.

"Who's there?" he said. His heart lurched. His breath shallowed. "Who's that?"

"Shall I tell him you'll be along presently, sir?"

Oliver pushed back his covers – his fingers shook and he was so weak, but he pushed them back, struggling to get out of bed. His heart pounded. He ran for the door.

It opened just as he reached it.

And there he was.

"Oh – " Oliver almost fainted; the tears began to pour. "Oh God – oh Dmitri, _my Dmitri_ - _!!_"

He flung his arms about Dmitri's neck, sobbing. The manservant swept him off his feet and twirled him along the corridor, laughing and crying at once. Oliver felt his heart soaring with joy as they whirled. At last, just as the dizziness overcame him, they hit the far wall and slumped down to the floor together, laughing, gasping. Tears glistened on their faces.

They kissed, clinging to each other; and on the staircase below, watching through the rails, Mrs Fowl turned to her husband, and threw her arms around him.

"Thank you – " She sobbed on her in-breath, squeezing him hard. "_Thank you._"

"He – he can't take the inheritance." Master Fowl held onto her tightly, burying his fingers in the curls of her hair. He could barely speak. "It – there would be too much scandal. The family needs an heir. We'll have to pass it to Marcus."

"Oliver won't want it," she said. She shuddered. "He's got everything he wants. And so have I. You're a wonderful man."

Master Fowl squeezed his eyes tight shut. "I love you," he whispered. "I love you all."

At the bottom of the stairs appeared Mrs Green, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

"When you're all done," she announced, peevishly. "I've got a goose down here going cold! Little Master Marcus is never going to manage it alone! And what's going on with this tree? Standing there all depressing – not a trinket on it – "

"We're coming, Mrs Green," the master called, with a slight grin. "Post-haste. We promise."

He lifted his voice through the railings.

"Oliver, Dmitri. Tree decoration commences immediately after dinner. Mrs Green and I expect you both there."

He took his wife's hand, leading her down the stairs. She hurried at his side and her smile lit her entire face.

Up on the landing, Oliver drew back at last from his lover's lips. They caught their breath. He cradled Dmitri's head in his hands, and gazed into the deep blue eyes.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so."

Dmitri drew a long breath. "What a horrendous year."

"And what a perfect ending to it." Oliver kissed between his eyes. "Never again. Nobody will take you from me again. Nobody."

He laid his hands on Dmitri's chest. His fingers encountered something beneath his shirt, and he checked, reaching beneath the neck of his lover's clothes. He drew out the thin chain.

There, hanging beside Dmitri's silver cross, was the white-gold ring. Oliver's heart expanded.

"You... you're still mine," he said.

Dmitri's mouth curved. "I was always yours," he said, and gathered Oliver into his arms. He got to his feet, and carried his lover carefully along the corridor. "Now, my love. By my reckoning, you need a goose dinner, a mug of cocoa and an early night, as soon as possible."

Oliver had to agree with this – particularly the early night. They had a year of early nights to catch up on, after all. He needed to find Dmitri a Christmas present as soon as possible. He wanted to redecorate his room, too. He had to thank his father.

All this could wait until the morning, though.

For now, there were traditions to be kept.


	14. Epilogue

**Out of Sight, Out of Mind**_**  
By Mottlemoth**_

_*****_

**Epilogue**

*****

**_Author's Notes_**

_Warning: smut. Now sit back and enjoy._

_*****  
_

"Not much further... just wait until you see it. It's beautiful."

Artemis tugged on his lover's hand, pulling Domovoi on through the forest. The early morning sun filtered down through the canopy overhead, casting dappled shade across their clothes and the forest floor, and there were birds singing in the trees. The forest was some miles from the burnt wreckage of Fowl Manor, but the walk wasn't arduous. On mornings like this, clear and bright and quiet, the forest became a haven of tranquillity. Artemis only hoped Domovoi liked his surprise.

They had been back in Ireland for two weeks now, getting financial affairs in order and residing temporarily in a plush hotel just outside Dublin. New accommodation would be needed soon. They couldn't live off room service forever. Artemis was restless, and he wanted to put down roots. The Fowls were perfectly capable of surviving ad hoc when necessary, but he had no desire to become a nomad.

"It's not gigantic," he said, looking over his shoulder. Domovoi walked behind him with a bemused smile and bright eyes, his boots crunching through the dewy forest floor. "But for the two of us... for the time being..."

"I've never heard of this place. Are you sure it's legally yours?"

"Ours." Artemis smiled. "And quite sure. I found it when I was dividing the family assets between my various aliases... I had no idea we owned it either. Apparently it's been unused for over a century."

"Really? Is it not a little run-down?"

"I may need a professional to check it over, but it seems perfectly adequate. Typical Victorian structure, I think. Built to last."

"Ah."

"_And_ it's sublime." Artemis tugged on Domovoi's hand, getting him to walk a little faster. "Just up this hill."

As they neared the summit, brushing their way through the vibrant green undergrowth, Artemis could make out the tip of a log chimney through the branches. Soon it was accompanied by a roof, and then the rest of the hunting lodge.

Every time he saw it, it seemed more and more perfect. It was small, yes, but it was cosy. It was all they needed. It nestled within the word as perfectly and naturally as if it weren't human-made at all, and it was in such good condition. The curtains at the window were Victorian, but they might as well be new.

"There – what do you think?" Artemis turned to Domovoi, breathless from the incline. He took his lover's hands. "I daresay I've over-rated it."

Domovoi's deep blue eyes studied the lodge, taking it all in – then he smiled. He looked down at Artemis. "I think it's great."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly. Secluded, quiet, sturdy... I like the idea of a hunting lodge. Are there antlers over the fire?"

"We can find some on the internet." Artemis hurried towards the lodge, still clutching Domovoi's hand. "The furniture is all period, and it's pristine... if it weren't so perfect, I would have it auctioned in a heartbeat. It must be worth a fortune. The _bed_, Domovoi..."

"A bed? In a hunting lodge?"

Artemis grinned. "Oh, it wasn't used for hunting. You'll see."

As they approached the door, Artemis reached inside his coat and took out the wrought iron key he'd carried with him for months now. The key was custom-made for security; a heart was encompassed in the design. The lock resisted for a moment, then yielded and the door swung open. Domovoi stooped to follow Artemis inside.

Artemis's heart beat a little faster as he looked around. It looked even more picturesque with Domovoi here – the bookshelves, the couch, the writing desk, the little cooking area. The bedroom was through the door to the left, and the bathroom to the right. It could do with some rewiring and a check for termites, but it was beautiful. Modern houses simply didn't have souls like this.

"Who lived here?" Domovoi asked, looking around. Artemis watched him, hope brimming in his chest.

"One of my great uncles," he said, "in the mid-nineteenth century... I did some research when I found this place listed in our properties. It's a rather touching story."

"Oh?"

"He was called Oliver... he was, ah, an erotic novelist. Apparently rather good at it. I haven't managed to hunt down his works yet. The family records are all quite guarded and restrained, but... from what they imply, I think he fell in love with his Butler."

He saw Domovoi's eyebrows quirk. "Really?" Domovoi smiled. "I thought those stories were just legends."

"No, I think there was some truth in it. There was disapproval from Oliver's father for a while, but eventually the Butler was accepted into the family. They lived in the manor for some years. Then, when they wanted a little space... they moved here."

"Into the lodge?"

"Mm. Oliver had it purpose-built." Artemis smiled, casting his gaze fondly over the sitting room. The visor couldn't provide him with colour and pattern, but he didn't need them to know how pretty this place was. It had a heart. "Their nest."

"That's a really nice story."

"Mm. And the records suggest they grew old together." He ran his hands over the back of the sofa, gently, admiring the woodwork. It was as shiny and smooth as the day it was carved. "Inseparable all their lives... the family line passed to Marcus, the younger brother, in the light of no heir. Their lodge fell into disuse when they were gone."

He looked up at Domovoi, who was studying the bookshelves.

"What do you think?" Artemis asked. Domovoi glanced round, smiling.

"I think it's lovely. More to the point, I think you adore it."

Artemis couldn't deny this. "It _is_ beautiful... I think I love the story more than anything. I love that they succeeded. They triumphed against adversity and disapproval, and they held onto each other. I... I think that's rather apt."

Domovoi moved away from the bookshelf.

"We do need a place to stay," he said. Artemis's chest flushed with pleasure as Domovoi leant down, catching his hands and kissing between his eyes. "We could monitor the renovation of the manor from here. We'd have privacy, peace, quiet... you'd adapt to the layout quickly. You wouldn't need the glasses so much."

Artemis had to admit he wanted to ease his dependency on the glasses. He wasn't sure why. The blindness, he felt, was a part of him now – it was a trait, a feature, not a flaw. He would learn to function alongside it and not in spite of it.

"Shall we give it a trial?" he suggested. "Over the weekend? If the roof gives way, we can return to the hotel and count our blessings."

Domovoi nodded. "I'm happy, if you are."

"Oh, I'm delirious. I suspect I will be for a long time."

"You think your great uncle would be okay with us here?"

Artemis cast his gaze around the lodge. He squeezed Domovoi's hands. "Yes," he said. "Absolutely. If I'd spent my life happy in this place, I'd want my descendants to be happy here. I think it deserves to be lived in. Leaving it to rot makes no sense."

"Sound logic." Domovoi kissed his forehead. "The weekend, then."

"A romantic weekend away in my ancestral hunting lodge." Artemis smiled. "How charmingly clichéd. It sounds like something out of Mills & Boon."

"I'm sure it will be."

*

Friday came around quickly. They arrived at the lodge shortly after four and the rain began an hour later, pounding the heavy oak roof in muffled sheets. Night fell. The rain showed no signs of easing. Domovoi tossed together a soup and made some sandwiches, and they ate side-by-side on the couch, their socked feet cosily entwined. The hours wiled away. Artemis knew long before bedtime that this was only the first night of many.

Already, he was envisioning summers spent up here when the wood was in all its glory, and spending winter weekends snowed in. He could see years ahead. He could see himself grown here, in his mid-twenties, thirties, reading on the couch or typing at a laptop, tea in hand. He could see Domovoi silvering and eased and magnificent, sleeping late, making dinner. He didn't know if there were children. He couldn't see that far. Dogs, maybe – he'd always wanted dogs. King Charles spaniels running at their heels as they strolled arm-in-arm through the forest in fall, years gone by and years to come.

It wasn't hope; it wasn't a dream.

It was what would be. It was inevitable. Nothing would change it. Artemis would spend the rest of his life with the name '_Domovoi Butler'_ written in his heart, come what may.

The lodge was home before nightclothes had even been changed into. Artemis bathed, trying not to get his glasses wet and finding the plumbing could do with a little attention. He would make a list of repairs, he decided as he dried off and finished his evening tea. He would pour his heart into this place.

He slipped into his pajamas and made his way barefoot to the bedroom, where he found Domovoi kindling a fire in the grate.

His bodyguard looked up, smiling.

"Alright?"

Artemis's heart heaved a silent sigh – God, Domovoi was wonderful.

"I'm... just perfect," he said.

Domovoi seemed to know what he was thinking. The dark blue eyes sparkled, and his manservant straightened up, stretching. "Good to hear," he said. "Think you'll sleep? It's a little raucous with the rain."

"I'm sure I'll manage." Artemis reached up; his fingers paused at the edges of his glasses. "You'll... keep watch, won't you?"

He saw Domovoi's expression soften. "Of course I will," he said, and stepped closer. It was Artemis's last sight of the night. He switched the lenses off and nothingness returned.

He eased the glasses from his face, smoothing down his hair at the temples, then gentle hands brushed his sides.

He smiled, leaning into the hug. Domovoi's arms encircled him. He laid his cheek on the warm pad of muscle that was his lover's shoulder, feeling his body hum with enjoyment.

"Put these somewhere safe?" he said, and held out the glasses. They were taken.

"On my bedside cabinet," Domovoi murmured. "If you need them in the night, just punch me awake."

The scents of the fireplace and Domovoi's lingering aftershave were filling Artemis's lungs, somehow stronger without his sight, and he basked in them. "I should be fine... when I have a route to the bathroom worked out, I shouldn't need them at all."

"You'll be fine." Domovoi squeezed him a little tighter. "I know you will."

There came a tender kiss to the crown of his head, making him grin.

"Under the covers with you," Domovoi murmured. "Before you freeze."

It _was_ rather cold. The pads of Artemis's feet burnt a little as he moved over the bare floorboards, searching for the edge of the bed with his fingertips. Once he had the coverlet, the rest was easy. He sank slowly into the absolute heaven of a feather mattress and a fire-warm duvet, letting out a sigh. Beds weren't meant to feel this good.

Domovoi rumbled with amusement somewhere nearby.

"Nice?"

"Oh, blissful. I think this will suit us very well."

"I'm glad." There was a pause. "It's so good to see you smile."

Artemis could hear the slide of fingers over material, the gentle snag of buttons. Domovoi was undressing. He shifted, tilting his head a little to hear better. He rather wished he'd left his glasses on.

"I'll have to smile more often," he said, and he could hear Domovoi's grin in his response.

"I'll do my best to inspire you."

There came the sound of an eased zip. Artemis swallowed slightly. "You do a fabulous job as it is," he said, and heard the quiet clink of trousers hitting bare wooden boards.

Domovoi moved about the room, finding nightclothes. Artemis was rethinking his wish for his glasses. Not being able to see Domovoi changed nothing about this moment - he didn't need to see his manservant's sculpted muscles and bronzed back to experience a hot, tight thrill. Somewhere in the room, Domovoi Butler was naked and dressing for bed. Artemis didn't need to see it. Just to exist near it, know of it, was more than enough.

Then the mattress dipped on the other edge; Domovoi slid into bed. Artemis wet his dry lips. He was suddenly aware of his breath, of the rain heavier than ever on the roof. A moment or two passed.

Then a hand brushed his stomach and rested on his opposite side, gently pinning him. Artemis waited. He knew Domovoi was above him, looking down, studying him. Nothing happened.

"Love?" he tried.

"You are perfect," he heard from above; he felt warmth spread from his heart to the very tips of his fingers and toes, shivering outwards all through his body. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

No accomplished crime, no solved puzzle, no human knowledge in the world could compare to this feeling.

No wonder people killed each other over love.

"Artemis," Domovoi then said, quietly, and Artemis knew instinctively that it was a question. He knew what question. He knew it hadn't been asked back in Domovoi's flat or in the hotel all week out of love and respect, out of exhaustion almost, since they'd both needed to heal. They'd needed to settle. Now all was well, all was safe, and the question had been asked.

Despite the slight and instinctive tension in his body, Artemis knew his answer. He ran his hands up Domovoi's bare, muscular forearms.

"I..." He hesitated. He allowed himself a cliché – it needed to be said. "Be gentle. I... have no idea."

"We don't have to – we shouldn't rush things." Domovoi's voice was the epitome of tenderness, softened with concern. "I want you to be ready."

"I am." Artemis tightened his fingers on Domovoi's biceps. The muscles there made his mouth water and his body sing, blaze, in spite of his fear. He didn't care about the mechanics or the discomfort or the morning after, or all other horrible things. He just wanted those muscles all over him. He wanted to run his mouth over them and he wanted to hear Domovoi gasping his name. "I just might need a little patience."

"You mustn't let me hurt you."

Artemis's mouth flickered in an anxious smile. He ran his hands to Domovoi's shoulders, then wrapped his arms around the powerful neck, drawing his lover closer.

"You can't," he whispered. "So come here."

Domovoi's nose brushed his own, gently; their lips met. Artemis listened to the patter of the rain on the roof, basking in the feel of his lover's mouth, the tender tongue, the weight of muscle so gently eased atop him. He splayed his hands over Domovoi's shoulders. Solid power thrummed beneath his fingertips.

They kissed – flicking, soothing, tangling – until an overpowering heat coiled low in Artemis's stomach. He found his breath shallow, his skin aching to be touched. An urge unlike anything he'd felt before was beginning inside him. He could feel Domovoi, too, warming – he felt each gentle flex in Domovoi's shoulders and biceps, caught the faint strain now as he exhaled, the reserved fervour in the movements of his jaw. He cradled Domovoi's face in his hands. Shudders began to dart up and down Artemis's chest, all through his thighs. He moaned his excitement. Domovoi shivered and pushed him back into the pillows, kissing him harder, fingertips ghosting over the buttons of his pajamas.

He did his best not to let the anxiety overcome him as Domovoi undressed him. His mind seemed to be going at a thousand miles an hour. Wild thoughts, mad thoughts, charged through his brain as each button came undone, as the fabric was pushed gently back from his chest. The brief flicker of fingertips over his nipples made his stomach twitch reflexively. He held onto Domovoi's upper arms and tried to slow the pounding of his heart. Domovoi coaxed him to lean up, to let the shirt off his arms.

They held each other, bare-chested now and stroking each other's arms and sides. Kissing resumed. Artemis relaxed into it – this was familiar. He could do this. Domovoi began to kiss and suck at his neck and he felt heat bloom in his cheeks. He clutched the heavy shoulders and listened to his own breathing grow sharp, quick, until he was struggling to contain his tight moans of enjoyment. He let them come. There was no place for dignity here. Domovoi's hands soothed down his sides, fingertips catching the waistband of his bottoms and sliding beneath.

The pajama bottoms came down. Artemis swallowed hard and tried not to tremble as his backside and his thighs were bared to the mattress, then his knees and calves, and finally Domovoi was freeing his ankles from the loose fabric. He pointed his toes to assist. The covers were drawn back.

He could feel the fire's warmth over his bare skin, all up his legs and his stomach and his chest. Even though he was blind, the thought of being seen naked was terrifying and he gathered his fists gently into the bedclothes to disguise their shaking. He laid naked, waiting, panic rising.

Domovoi's fingers stroked over his stomach. The touch soothed him.

"Alright?" came the whisper; Artemis nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"Yes, I – " He reached for his lover and his fingers encountered the washboard stomach. He lowered the waistband of Domovoi's loose pants. "You're – overdressed."

Domovoi caught his hand. "Don't be scared," he whispered and leant low, his lips grazing Artemis's temple in reassurance. Domovoi squeezed his fingers. "Here."

He pushed Artemis's hand lower, cupping it to his groin. Artemis felt excitement spike wildly in his stomach as he felt the heat there, the hard outline of Domovoi's swollen cock beneath the fabric. He gripped through instinct.

"Feel what you do to me," Domovoi breathed. "Don't be frightened."

"Oh God, Domovoi - " Artemis swallowed hard. "I don't think I can wait much longer."

Domovoi – to Artemis's relief – was a merciful man. He shifted and Artemis helped to pull the soft cotton bottoms down and strip him of the last stitch of clothing. The loose pants were kicked away. Domovoi crawled to Artemis's arms, stretching out beside him, and at last – at long last – Artemis pushed himself up against the delectable, naked, muscular frame of Domovoi Butler. He shuddered with delight at the feel of his lover's skin, his heat. Domovoi engaged him in a deep kiss and their mouths warred. They writhed slowly together, shuddering, until Domovoi pushed Artemis gently onto his back.

"Just feel, love," Domovoi whispered in his ear. "Enjoy – relax."

He kissed at Artemis's neck, then his collarbones; then he began to wind his way down.

Artemis's head fell back into the pillows, his mouth open. He didn't think it was healthy to be this aroused. He pushed his fingers over Domovoi's scalp, wordlessly begging his heart to slow down. It felt as if it were speeding away without him.

Domovoi paused in his descent only to swirl his tongue briefly in Artemis's navel, causing all kinds of intriguing little shivers to dart through the Fowl heir's body. His tongue then swiped the tip of Artemis's erection. Artemis stopped thinking at all.

He'd never understood the human obsession with orgasm. All life seemed to revolve around this single mythic sensation. It was one he'd never felt, unwilling to indulge in playing with himself to experience it, when to do so seemed so silly and _teenage_. He couldn't imagine climax would ever live up to its reputation. A simple contraction of various muscle groups, he'd thought; the release of accumulated blood and pressure in the genitals. How surprising could it be? He'd never understood.

Then he was on his back in bed that night, listening to the rain, trying to keep breathing as he was drawn steadily in and out of Domovoi's mouth. Domovoi's hands were at his inner thighs, stroking in rhythm. The wet heat, the tightness, was impossible. His heart was thundering. Sweat gleamed on every part of his body and he could hear himself whimpering like an imbecile. He feared he would burst. Some itch inside him, some unbearable and frenzied itch, was suddenly so hot and so sharp he could die. _Now,_ he thought, _now – _he heard himself sob it.

Something broke.

White sizzled through the whole of his body.

His back arched from the bed; he felt his toes curl into the covers and his heart erupt and oh _God_, how had he lived? How had he lived without this? It was like the most powerful, wonderful stretch, like a shiver of the soul. It couldn't be real. He was whining and crying under the strength of the feelings, the rush of it all. A wave of heat devoured him whole.

When awareness returned, Domovoi was kneeling over him. His powerful fingers were carding through Artemis's hair and there were lips over Artemis's cheeks, over his temples.

"Love... are you okay?"

Artemis struggled for speech. "Good God," he managed.

Domovoi grinned against his cheek, with a little huff of air. His voice was rather husked. "There's more," he murmured. "There are nicer things."

Swallowing, Artemis lifted his hands. He pushed his fingertips over Domovoi's broad, sweat-slick chest, adoring what he felt there. His body was still humming, despite the release. "Show me," he whispered.

"Sure?" Domovoi cupped his cheek. "You don't want to rest?"

"No. I want you." Artemis leant up, brushing his mouth inexpertly over Domovoi's cheek and then down to his lips. "I want to feel everything," he whispered against them.

"There's a lot of everything to feel," Domovoi said, though Artemis could feel him leaning closer. The heat of Domovoi's erection still pressed into his leg, urgent and wanting.

"Please," Artemis said – he would reprimand Domovoi later for reducing him to begging. For now, he didn't care. He just wanted more touches. He wanted to be hard again, to come again. "Just... I – "

Domovoi kissed him hard. They rolled over, wrapped tightly together. Time passed in a haze and Artemis lost himself, fading in and out of touches and tongues and heated whispers in his ear. The fire crackled, warming their bare skin. The rain thundered down on the roof, somehow far away too. The outside world couldn't reach them here.

For a long time there was just kissing and hands, until Artemis felt the blood beginning to pool once more in his genitals. The urge began again. He got his hands to Domovoi's heavy cock and shuddered, marvelling at it, wrapping the hot flesh in his fists and stroking with fervour. Domovoi let out a noise Artemis would never forget.

His manservant pulled him closer, gathering him up in powerful arms, and sat back against the headboard. He was drawn onto Domovoi's lap. He made himself comfortable, pushing close, shivering a little still.

"Hang on," Domovoi whispered. He stretched, reaching for the bedside cabinet. "We need – " There was a quiet clatter of objects.

"What is it?" Artemis asked, hesitantly.

Domovoi leant back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Artemis's lips. He had something in his right hand. The left was secure around Artemis's waist, fingers splayed on his rump.

"Lube," the manservant whispered. "Just an oil – makes things slippery, smoother. Nicer. I thought – just in case – " He paused, and hugged Artemis tighter to his chest. "Let me show you something?"

Artemis's close relationship with the internet had given him a theoretical – if not practical – knowledge of the pleasures two gentlemen could find together. Reading about it, he'd been unsure. It sounded strange and uncomfortable. It sounded like a poor substitute for heterosexual intercourse at best.

The involvement of Domovoi changed everything. Heterosexual intercourse suddenly seemed like a poor substitute for Domovoi. A petty surrogate for what Domovoi was now offering to do to Artemis.

"Does it hurt?" came out of his mouth, before he could stop himself.

"It can feel strange at first," Domovoi admitted. The honesty was comforting. It was better than an untruthful no. "But it's worth being brave. Pushing through."

Artemis considered for all a second. Then he slid his arms around Domovoi's neck.

"Show me," he whispered.

'Strange' was an apt description – the first finger, and most of the second, made Artemis's grip tighten on Domovoi's shoulders and some of the colour cool from his cheeks. He pushed onwards. Some of his nerves must have shown; Domovoi began to kiss at his lips and his cheeks, whispering to him, telling him he was so beautiful, he was so brave. Two fingers slid in and out of his body, stretching him. He clung to Domovoi.

"Okay?" Domovoi whispered after some minutes. The oil was starting to warm; some of the discomfort was easing.

"It's o-okay. Keep going." Artemis shifted, spreading his thighs and turning his face into Domovoi's neck. "Can you – a bit deeper?"

He didn't know why he wanted it, what instinct drove the desire. As Domovoi's fingers twisted slowly, pushing higher, he found out.

His vision whited for several seconds. Pleasure burst all in his body, robbing him of breath, and somewhere in the haze he managed to whimper. "O-_oh_, more – "

Domovoi's fingers began to thrust gently, steadily, grazing the spot they'd found. Artemis gasped for breath. The sensation was still strange – but it was _spectacular_. It felt divine. His hips began to rock in rhythm by their own accord, and he barely felt the third finger until it was halfway in. Domovoi was murmuring to him, adoring him. His bodyguard's voice was cracking.

Artemis reached down between his legs, panting hard now, lost. He wrapped his fingers around Domovoi's wrist. He pulled eagerly, rhythmically, coaxing Domovoi's fingers in and out of his body like a toy. His head fell back, pleasure scorching all through his veins. He struggled for breath. He whimpered and moaned, disgracing himself and not caring in the slightest. Domovoi's gasped curse was worth the loss of his dignity.

More oil was poured; he fisted Domovoi's cock until it was hot and slick to the touch from root to tip, and Domovoi gasped for him to stop before it all ended too soon. They rolled over, kissing in a frenzy. Domovoi's head hit the pillows. Artemis climbed back atop him, straddling his hips. He gripped his lover's pulsing cock in one hand.

It hurt more than Artemis expected, significantly more. Domovoi was in proportion with his hulk-like frame, and Artemis was not in the habit of doing this, no matter how much he wanted it. They slowed; they kissed, talking and comforting, and Domovoi stroked at Artemis's flagging erection. The fire's warmth rippled up and down Artemis's bare spine, consoling him, encouraging.

In the end, they took it half an inch at a time. Midway, Artemis's knuckles were on the point of bursting through the skin, and the shake in Domovoi's wrists suggested the feeling was shared. Even on the other side, filled to the brim with Domovoi's cock, Artemis couldn't completely disregard the pain. He swallowed and fought to relax. He concentrated on the feel of tender fingers petting his chest, playing with his nipples, stroking up and down his arms, and on the sound of Domovoi's voice, promising him it would feel good soon. Promising it would ease.

They began to rock – shallow, gentle. The mattress creaked quietly on each careful stroke and Domovoi's hands came to his hips, supporting each movement, guiding him. The rain hushed down on the roof. The fire gleamed in the sweat on Artemis's lower back. He let the minutes pass, let the anxiety cool – and slowly, steadily, the pleasure came.

At first it was just the realisation, the knowledge they were making love for the first time – sex with Domovoi. Five years of wanting. Sex with Domovoi, grown-up, intimate. Lovers. Then Domovoi's voice began to strain, his breath started to labour, and Artemis realised he'd been waiting to come all night. He'd been fighting it, too concerned for Artemis's well-being. Even now, Domovoi was praising him and reassuring him, murmuring to him despite the desperate edge to his voice. Artemis's heart contracted with a sudden surge of love.

"You're – you're so good to me – " he whimpered, unable to form proper voice.

Domovoi's hands tightened at his hips. "O-of course - I love you - " he bit out, as if this answered every question in the world. For Artemis, in that moment, it did.

As he relaxed, the discomfort ebbed. The oil was warming more and it was slick now, heated, and Domovoi slid easily and comfortably in and out of his body, stroking nerve ends, stirring pleasure all inside him. They rocked deeper, a little faster. Domovoi shifted and angled his hips, pushing up on each down-stroke. From the first deeper thrust, the first bump of his prostate and the first blaze of _ohfuckyes_ that devoured Artemis alive inside, the pain withered. It vanished. He didn't feel it anymore.

This was _wonderful_.

Soon, he couldn't hold back the moans. Domovoi was still guiding his hips, steadying him, and all he had to do was rock and relax and enjoy. He let his head fell back. His lips opened, gasping for breath, whining with pleasure. Domovoi was panting now, shuddering beneath him. The pressure, the thickness, pushed into him over and over and it was Domovoi, all Domovoi, and Artemis couldn't last. He couldn't wait. Five years, he'd waited.

He felt climax approaching this time. He felt it rising, burning. _Almost, almost. _He could imagine Domovoi's face and he could hear his lover moaning with desperation, let go at last. All that strength, all that power. _All mine. All mine_.

Artemis's second climax drowned out the rain; Domovoi came with him, crying out, howling for breath. Night birds took flight in the forest.

The fire heaved a sigh, crumbling another log into white ash.

*

Artemis woke next morning, face down in the pillows, and feeling well and truly seen to. He stifled a small groan, twitching. Before he'd even lifted his head, there was a hand over his back and a nuzzle at his cheek, and a voice full of concern in his ear.

"Love?" Domovoi kissed the back of his neck. "Are you awake?"

Artemis's sleep-fogged brain refused to co-operate and give him any words to respond with. He stirred in Domovoi's arms instead, and gave a sleepy groan. The message was conveyed. Domovoi squeezed him, slowly, and let him come round in quiet. Some minutes passed.

"How're you feeling?" his bodyguard husked, at last.

Artemis shifted, trying to think of something eloquent. "Fucked," he decided at last, and Domovoi laughed against his shoulder. His bodyguard's voice brimmed with a grin.

"That's – well, yes. You will do." He brushed back Artemis's hair. "I'll run you a warm bath... a back-rub might help. Lots of sleep."

"That sounds fabulous." Artemis stifled a yawn, stirring a little. He tucked his head beneath Domovoi's chin. "Thank you, 'movoi..."

For a while there was more quiet. Domovoi began to trace circles on the small of his back.

"Feeling... okay, this morning?" his lover asked. "No regrets?"

Artemis's heart glowed. "You're impossibly sweet," he said. He lifted his head, brushing his cheek over the stubble on Domovoi's jaw. "No regrets. I... liked it." This was important, he realised; he punctuated it with a kiss. He was getting more and more accurate at kissing Domovoi's lips, instead of missing and kissing his nose, his cheeks, his chin.

"I'm glad. I... I worried for a while we went too far. Your first time."

"We did nothing I didn't want." Artemis sealed it with another kiss, adding, "Nothing I won't want to do again."

He felt the slight pause in Domovoi's breath, the flex of his fingers. "Mm hmm?"

"Mm. Just... give it a while." Artemis smiled. "Beast."

Domovoi laughed again, his chest shaking. He let Artemis go. "Your beast," he said. "Tamed and at your service – which I think this morning involves a hot bath."

He pushed himself out of bed. Artemis laid in the mess of covers, half-tangled, listening to his manservant move about the room and pull on boxer shorts.

"What do you fancy for breakfast?" Domovoi asked from nearby.

"Just some toast..." Artemis thought of reaching for his glasses. The thought didn't appeal. He didn't want to ruin this morning with sight, he realised. What a strange thing to think. "How big is the bath? I haven't taken a proper look yet."

"It's quite big, I think."

"In that case... I don't suppose you'd care to join me." He gave a little smile. "Keep me company."

"It would be my deepest honour, Master Fowl." Domovoi appeared by the side of the bed; he leant down, and Artemis glowed at the little kiss planted on his forehead. "I won't be long," his lover promised. Domovoi then left.

Artemis laid in bed, facing the ceiling. He listened to the bath running in the next room. The rain had stopped, he realised – the sun would be rising outside.

He drew in a slow, happy breath. The smell of home filled his lungs.

"Thank you, Uncle Oliver," he whispered.

*

The End.

*

_**Author's Final Note**_

_Dedicated to Snidgey, who works her butt off for me, and without whom I would be half of myself. These last few chapters also have a side-dedication to Dani and Cory, who waited so long they even hunted me down on Livejournal. (You're fab, guys.)_

_Reviews welcome. 3 _

_Thanks for reading. Thank you, thank you._


End file.
